


Rivers

by Subtlemagic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, Johnlock in a Mental Institution, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Murder, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 94,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtlemagic/pseuds/Subtlemagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The river dominated John’s life; it defined his childhood, destroyed his adolescence and brought him rushing head on towards an adulthood that he couldn’t control. The institution was his last chance to keep a hold on his fragile grip.</p><p>'Til someone teaches him that if he tries to let go, he might be able to learn how to keep his head above water</p><p>(Or John and Sherlock meet in a mental institution)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vaitarna

**Author's Note:**

> In which we meet our unstable protagonist, who worries a lot.

“Lord God almighty, creator of heaven and earth, we ask you to bless this water as we use it in faith to forgive our sins. Lord, in your mercy give us living water, springing up as a fountain of salvation; free us, body and soul, from every danger, and admit us to your presence in purity of heart…”

John let the words wash over him. He didn’t have to think about them; he knew the whole thing off by heart. He knew where to sit and where to stand. He knew when to listen and when to join in. He knew the differences between normal Sunday mass and special occasions. He knew how far he was into a sermon and what the priest would talk about in the evening mass depending on what had happened in the two morning masses. He knew how to bless himself as he came in and he knew the etiquette of holy communion. These things had been etched into his mind before he could even speak.

At six years old John didn’t really understand or notice how often he and his family went to church, it seemed, to all intents and purposes, normal to him. The ritual of Sundays had always been the same. John and his family would rise at six, say their prayers, eat breakfast, wash and then get dressed into their first Sunday best. After that they would go to communion in the morning at eight, return home briefly to change once again, have a spot of tea, and would return to St Martins for the second Sunday morning communion at ten. They would spend the day alternating between eating, having tea at the dinner table and going through bible studies, and then they would return to the Church again for the evening service. They would often go to communion part way through the week as well if there was one being held, and his mother always knew exactly when the confessional was open.

He didn’t asked his mother why they went to church so much, although when he asked had politely what communion was for, she, apparently pleased by his interest, insisted that it was to cleanse their souls of sin so that they would be worthy to remain in God’s favour and on his earth. For a six year old extrapolating from such information was easy enough. If communion got rid of sin, and they went to communion all the time, then they must be full of sin.

He didn’t really know how he had done so much sin, that the family would have to take communion this often, but he assumed that there must have been a lot of sin that needed accounting for. His mother would point it out to him often enough. “It’s sinful,” was a phrase often heard around the house. If only he could work out what the sin was, then he could stop doing it. If he could be a good boy and not sin then he wouldn’t be so dirty. If he wasn’t a bad child then his Mummy would stop being unhappy. Then they wouldn’t have to go to church, then he could play with his toys and spend time with his sister, whom John, for now at least, thought was the best person ever. Mummy didn’t tell her she was full of sin, Harriet was amazing.

Some part of John told him that it wasn’t just him who was sinful, there were lots of other ladies he saw at the church all the time as well whom he was sure must do some bad things during the week. Why would they come so often otherwise? He tried to imagine how they would ever be bad people, and he couldn’t work it out. He quite liked them all things considered; they smelled of powder and gave him sweets and pinched his cheeks and told him how much he looked like his father, although when one woman said that within hearing of his mother she turned a strange mottled puce and dragged him away to kneel outside confession. He wasn’t sure what it was he had done wrong, though he must have done something and so he stayed there, very still and very quiet, until his mother came and got him again.

Mother was the one who was most interested in sin. She was especially interested in the cleansing of sin and ritual to purify the soul. Sometimes his mother would decide that the family weren’t going to eat, to feel how Jesus felt as he was proving himself worthy of heaven in the desert. She would make them drink lots of water every Saturday, to ensure that their bodies were pure for church, and in the corner of the hallway was their own personal stoup for their holy water. She kept it in bottles, and they all knew that they had to bless themselves on their way out of and their way into the house.

It was just what they did, and John sort of understood after all, he was expected to wash to stop himself getting dirty, he figured a soul, whatever that was, probably needed the same treatment.

He was sure that other children must do this sort of thing as well, but they never spoke of it. His father insisted that to be boastful of their family’s dedication to God was sinful in and of itself, though father never did seem as involved in the church as his Mother was. But still, pride was a deadly sin, the sort of sin that he would go to hell for, so he didn’t speak of it at all.

He went to a catholic primary school, and they held mass as well every other Wednesdays for the older children. Even though he went to communion often, he was still expected to sit there and pray along and to receive his blessing from the priest who would visit them; his mother had requested it. Whilst the others his age were playing outside, or singing songs about Jesus in the classroom, John sat and watched the all too familiar mass unfurl, another one to add to his growing collection.

“Do hurry up, John” his mother said as the sermon ended and they left with the rest of the congregation crowding out of the door. “We have things to do.”

Today was a day where he would go and play in the river, they all would, they would sit by the bank all in white and let the water wash them clean as mother read passages from the bible about Jesus’s baptism and he would ignore most of it in favour of trying to see the little fishes that made the streams their home.

Living in the water, John thought, they could be free.

~*~

Nowadays John didn’t go to the river. The last time he went bad things happened. That was why he was here he supposed; here in his room, packing a meagre suitcase of belongings and personal items. He wondered if there were things he wasn’t allowed to bring. Probably stupid stuff, like shoelaces and belts and god knows what. Residents were probably dressed in some kind of uniform to make sure that no-one hurt themselves. The building was probably all whitewashed walls and metal furniture, the occasional official person wandering purposefully back and forth with a clipboard whilst the rest of them were isolated for fear of letting the crazies mingle.

He went through a checklist in his head of the thing that he needed to take; clean clothes, towels, toiletries, teddy, hard drive with all his work on it, favourite book (the one he would never let his mother see), his other favourite book (the mother approved one), grey’s anatomy text book,  biochemistry text book, a few photos of family, the rosary his mother had given him.

His memory box.

He paused at that. It was stupid really; a box of trinkets highlighting better times and better places. A trip he had enjoyed or an outing into the woods. A particular interesting stone and…

That fucking tape.

His hand hovered over it. After all these years, after all this time and all the bad blood that had come after, and he still couldn’t throw away that fucking god forsaken tape. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. On that first day when _he_ stopped talking to John and starting taunting him he had tried to get rid of it. When he mother questioned him he had wanted to get rid of it to protect himself. But somehow, even after everything that came after, even after _that day_ , even after the anguish that came with it, he still couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.

He was just too much of a coward he guessed; too pathetic, holding onto a thought and a feeling when the person that the feeling belonged to was long gone. The person those feelings were for was long gone.

 _John_ was long gone.

Too much seemed to stop him from throwing that stupid tape into the bin, he instead carefully put it back in its place, sealed the lid and put the tin in his suitcase amongst his clothes. He carelessly packed a few other bits and bobs; it didn’t really matter if he forgot something. It wasn’t like it would be going anywhere, and his mother had all the really important documentation he needed.

There was a soft knock at the door, all the sounds around him had been soft nowadays, so as not to distress him he supposed. People treated him as though he might suddenly lash out if the noise level reached above a pre-set level of decibels. He knew it was his mother; his sister wasn’t talking to him and his father wouldn’t come near his room. He missed Harry sometimes, but then he remembered that Harry hadn’t been much like the big sister he used to play with quite a while.

“I’m sorry, but the officer’s here.” He noticed how any terms of endearment she used to use were long gone now, not that he had heard them for a few years anyway. “Have you got everything you need?” She asked, “Have you got your spare…”

She still couldn’t say it. He doubted that she’d ever be able to say it to his face, there was too much guilt there, or perhaps disgust. Either way it has amounted to this strange half recognised elephant in the room. Everyone trying to pretend it was normal when it was anything but.

“I’ve got my spare prosthetic mum, don’t worry.” John reassured her, consciously avoiding the use of the word ‘leg’ in turn.

It had been the first thing he had packed, and undoubtedly the hospital would want to take a look at it before he was checked in. The nagging worry that he might have to be on crutches or in a wheelchair for the first few days, whilst they verified that he hadn’t tried to smuggle anything into the building via his leg, terrified him. There was nothing worse than losing independent movement; he remembered what it was like after the accident, before he had gotten his artificial leg. Though he had now lost his independence in some sense, he was acutely aware that there were things, options, which would have been much worse.

Of course the hospital never said that they _would_ take his leg to inspect it, but that paranoid part of his mind, the one that had heard far too many media horror stories about mental institutions and the way they treated in-patients, wouldn’t let the thought leave his head.

“Maybe it’s all for the best.” His mother said, and not for the first time, “Maybe they can fix… everything.” She said with a vague gesture of her hands, saying more in her omissions than her words ever could.

John froze in place stupid knitted red socks still in hand. He knew to what ‘everything’ his mother was referring, and it made him sick to his stomach. Just the meanest suggestion of it spiralled him into the path of a desperate churning guilt, mixed with the desire to scream a big _‘fuck you’_ to the indoctrinated denunciation of self that had been thrust upon him from before he could remember. ‘It’s not my fault that you fucked up!’ he had been screaming internally for years, but this time it was _him_ who had fucked up, and no matter how many things had caused him to arrive at this terrible place, it was still John’s fault.

That was why he was being taken to the hospital by the long arm of the law, and not by health care professionals. How had his life come to this? His _father_ wouldn’t even acknowledge his presence, his mother was driving herself mad trying to pretend that nothing was wrong, and his sister was go knows where taking advantage of his parents distracted nature to freely pursue her own ‘sins’. Though being fair to her, he was mostly certain she was just being a normal student.

But in this family, normal was not normal.

He zipped his suitcase shut, and hauled it downstairs. This would be his life now, this meagre package of possessions. His sister watched him from her room with a look of barely disguised distain. They hadn’t gotten on in years. No more would they play together and, whatever his mother would like to believe, it had started long before his accident.

“Say hello to the crazies from me.” She uttered, the lack of sympathy and cruel humour radiating through every word.

John didn’t reply. Though a thousand rebuttals filled his head, he didn’t have the energy to express them anymore. He never had been able to confront people and the trial and subsequent court order had taken what was left of his spirit out of him.

She retreated to her room, letting the door slam behind her, as though to finalise her goodbye and her association with him. He tried not to care though, in some way she had disassociated herself from him a long time ago, there wasn’t anything new there, and therefore nothing to get upset about. He just wished he could make himself believe that. Inside all he felt was hurt. Then again all he had felt was hurt for quite a while now. It wasn’t a new thing.

He reached the living room where the officer was sitting drinking a cup of tea offered by his mother. “I’m ready to go now.” John said, not knowing what to make of this gentle figure orchestrating his removal from his life and home. He had expected some gruff thuggish man ready to manhandle him into the car and away from here, but instead his man seemed content to let John take his time and say goodbye to his surroundings. Did this officer know what John had done? Was he being nice because he was unaware?

John guessed that it didn’t matter really.

He gave his mother a brief hug, the sort that was reserved for friends of friends and regular acquaintances, but not for between family members. There was no warmth there, and there was certainly no more than the barest of emotions expressed. It was the sort of contact that people endured to be polite, not the sort of contact that suggested any real care or affection was shared, and it took him a moment to realise that he was staring at his mother in a sort of state of shock.

John knew that his mother didn’t care that much for him; she had always seen him as a disappointment, but when he was leaving, to return goodness knew when, it was more of a blow than he had initially anticipated having her be so uncaring and unfazed by it. _He_ certainly wasn’t unmoved by the situation. John was bloody terrified. He was terrified of being wrenched from his life, no matter how strange. He was terrified of the people that he would be staying with. He was terrified at the idea of being in an _institution_ and what that meant for his future. Did he even have a future anymore or was this it? Was he now condemned to this sort of life?

“I’ll take your case, lad.” The officer said, gently picking up John’s worldly goods and taking them over to the unmarked car. He was grateful for that he supposed, at least they weren’t making a big song and dance over the situation. He would be discreetly carried away in the grey light of morning to be quietly forgotten about and life would carry on as per usual.

The ride was sedate and unhurried. The officer didn’t try to engage John in conversation, and instead was content to play soft whispers of music on the radio. The gentle strains of sound and the soft rocking of the car would have sent John to sleep, if he hadn’t been scared stiff.

When they finally pulled up, they had arrived at what looked like an old stately home; a giant sprawling estate which had probably had many generations worth of extensions added to fit with the fashion of the time before moving into the NHS’s hands. John would have been lying to say that he wasn’t shocked and surprised. This place was gorgeous, and nothing like the concrete sixties monstrosity that he had conjured up in his mind.

The officer pulled his bag across the gravel of the drive and rang the doorbell, silently inviting John to follow him, rather than parading him to the door. If John had been a different person, perhaps a braver person, he knew that he could probably run away from everyone and everything in that moment, but John had never been particularly brave, at least not when it came to figures of authority.

The man who opened the door reminded John of a well shaved Father Christmas. Though he didn’t know where the comparison came from, as the only physical similarities seemed to be the slightly rotund figure. John thought it was the man’s demeanour that had forced the connection; he seemed jolly in the way that John couldn’t help but imagine was perpetual, as though there was no way that this man could avoid being happy.

The place looked as stately inside as it did out, but it was much more brightly coloured. It seemed almost humorous to him. It was the perfect reflection of so many people; the vision of polite society with the acceptable stoic exterior, but inside was a riot of messy colour that you could peer at from the outside if you looked carefully enough. He clearly hadn’t had enough sleep if a building was making him get philosophical.

“You must be John,” the man said in a booming and slightly accented voice, grasping John’s hand firmly, “My name’s Stamford, Doctor Mike Stamford, I’m the resident psychologist here. We’ve got lots of day and night staff, but I’m here twenty-four-seven if you need me. We’ll sort out the formalities, I’ll show you to your room and then later I’ll start the grand tour.”

It was embarrassing being led to the side office where he and his luggage were carefully searched for dangerous items. Belts were, cliché as it seemed, actually banned items. His shoes however, being lace-less, were okay. The officer was quick to assure John that this was standard procedure and that he had nothing to worry about, but John couldn’t help but wonder what happened to people who were terrified about being touched. Could they cope with the perfunctory pat down that John had endured, or would they be given separate treatment? There were so many questions he had about this place, but his mouth seemed to have lost the ability to ask them.

“I can take it from here constable.” Dr Stamford shook the constable’s hand as well before taking the now resorted and packed case.

“Thank you, constable.” John said, timidly, though he wasn’t really sure that saying thank you was appropriate here.

The constable touched the brim of his cap in a way that was antiquated, and yet didn’t look even slightly out of place. “Good luck, John”

“Right,” said Mike, who had just locked the office door. Clapping his hands he then picked up the suitcase from where he had briefly placed it on the floor. “Follow me, and I’ll take you to your room.”

John trailed behind through this grand old building. Large windows shed light across the hallways and stairs and he felt, though still scared, slightly calmer than he had been when he had been packing earlier. The rooms and the corridors were so distinctive he also was fairly sure that he wouldn’t get lost any time soon, that in itself was a great bonus, he didn’t know how people were split up and, for want of a better word, organised here, but if he could tell the difference between the corridors already, then he stood a good chance of being able to avoid the places where he wasn’t allowed to be.

“This part of the building is for long term male residents. The girls stay in the opposite wing, the short term patients stay more towards the centre, and the communal and day patients areas are all in the middle near the entrance hall. We care for about a hundred and fifty residents at any one time, and about thirty are long term, like yourself.”

John didn’t have to be told that, he had heard his options enough times in court and then the details were shared with him afterwards by his interim social worker. Though Dr Stamford would probably want to tell him everything again to make sure that John understood, he already knew what lay ahead of him: John would be in the institute for a minimum of a year and he would remain longer if the social worker related to his case thought that he needed it.

“Your room is here. You’ve got the space to yourself, so you can personalise it anyway you like. We encourage individualisation here. If you want paints or pictures you can put them up, I hope you’ll understand that we do reserve the right to say if we don’t think your choice fits in with the ethos of this establishment.”

Nodding his reply John couldn’t help but be acutely aware of the fact that Dr Stamford was talking to him like an adult. Like a _sane_ adult, and John wasn’t sure whether to be happy about it or worried. He was now living in a mental institution, it didn’t seem right that he would be treated like a normal person here when he had spent _years_ at home being treated like a witless infant, even before the incident that had brought him here.

“I’ll let you get settled,” Dr Stamford offered, “I’ll come and find you again at around five o’clock so we’ve got time to chat before dinner, but feel free to wander around the house and communal areas. The walled garden at the back has some communal vegetable patches, which you’re welcome to look at, though the rest of the grounds are only available under supervision.” With that brief invitation he walked out and gently closed the door behind him.

The room _was_ white, but in that kind of neutral way that was actually very comfortable, the furniture, though plain and utilitarian, was wooden and homely unlike the kinds that were normally used in hospitals. He suspected that the rooms were allotted on a case by case basis, as he had been given what was probably quite a desirable space on the ground floor which meant he didn’t have to climb stairs. It wasn’t that he couldn’t climb stairs, but it took a lot more effort than it used to, and he was always slow with his prosthetic heavy against what was left of his knee joint, especially if he had to bend too much.

He sat on the bed and lay down trying to imagine life here for the next twelve months. He tried to think of what creative ways he could make this room his own, but the only thought that crossed his mind was green forests and winding rivers. Such suggestions would probably be vetoed as being detrimental to his recovery. Instead he tried to blank it from his mind. He thought that perhaps he could go for a wander around the house, to try and make himself feel like he was at home, but he knew that forgetting everything wasn’t that easy.

Instead he lay very still and quiet, and breathed in the still, hoping that it would, in turn, still his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work in progress, and though the whole story is mapped out, everything is subject to change.
> 
> Also I'm a bit pants at keeping to a deadline, so I'm going to say I'll probably update every one or two weeks.


	2. Kokytos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our hero meets a rat and a mouse.

John hadn’t felt this pathetically stupid before the accident. Before the accident, despite the fact his mother would have said that he was prideful, he was for the most part under the impression that he was very bright indeed. He had had aspirations for himself that relied heavily on his above average mental capabilities, but now they had been shot down; laid to waste.

The idea that he was sitting here looking at the pen sitting in his hand and trying to work out how to work it properly was as frustrating as it was misery-making. Even trying to find the correct grip on the pen was a hassle. Holding his arm in front of him for too long, trying to focus on his hand, was hurting his shoulder in a way that his shoulder shouldn’t have hurt. Of all the places and all the ways he had been injured, his shoulder hadn’t been affected, and yet he seemed to get these twinges of pain and cramp there consistently. It was as though the nerves in his upper body were trying to overcompensate for the fact that part of him was now physically missing.

It seemed strange to miss a leg like he missed a person, like he would miss a friend. In the unlikely event that he ever kept a friend long enough to miss them, he imagined that their hypothetical loss would feel like this. He couldn’t breathe sometimes, especially when he got the tingles of sensation from where his leg used to be.

In the night he got echoes of feeling, of wanting to scratch an itch that was no longer there and thought it was the worst feeling he had ever experienced he was terrified of the day when that phantom pain would disappear. When the day came that he didn’t dream of it anymore he knew that the terrible hope he felt in the middle of the night– the hope that questioned how his accident could have been anything but a dream when could still _feel_ his leg - would be gone forever.

There were some people at the hospital who told him that these feelings were okay and normal, especially just after the surgery. They had told him that this was all just a part of his recovery and that he might feel this way for a while. They told him that he had gone through so much and it was fine if he needed time to feel like hell. It was _alright_ to want to stay in bed forever and think that there was no way that he would ever live a normal life again.

When he had woken from his coma to the gentle voice of the surgeon saying ‘accident’ and ‘inoperable’ and ‘I’m so very sorry’, even his virtually catatonic state hadn’t overly worried the hospital psychiatrist. The soft spoken doctor with her Scottish brogue had talked John’s mental issues through with him and explained what had happened to him and the feelings that would continue to arrive at his doorstep for months, perhaps even years to come.

Then, the hospital staff had said, when he was ready he would be in a good position to return to normal, return to a normal life of normal thoughts, ideas and ambitions. Despite the fact that there had been damage to more than his leg - he had suffered contusions to his whole body, he had been technically dead for two minutes and the lack of oxygen to his brain had meant that he was lucky to have possession of his faculties at all - they were very optimistic.

“You’ll _only_ have to relearn a few academic and fine motor skills.” They told him.

This was nothing compared to some people’s rehabilitation needs apparently. Although right now his movements were clunky and awkward, and he still had to transfer himself back and forth to his wheelchair several times a day, they reassured him that mobility would return to him once he got his strength back in what was left of his leg.

But those people weren’t here anymore. And now such support and understanding for the emotions he was feeling had gone. There was no way that his mother or father would talk to him about anything at all, let alone clinical depression, which she was pretty much certain was as much as a flimsy passing phase as his other ‘illness’.

Now the only means of support his parents would allow him was the church he hated, the church he had internally rejected years ago. He couldn’t resolve the idea of a loving caring god who would create him this way and then cause his own family to reject him so completely. He couldn’t imagine a god who would have let something like this happen to him in the first place. He couldn’t imagine a god who was so silent that he let mere mortals pretend that they knew his will and could speak his words, letting them be twisted to their own agenda.

He just couldn’t imagine a god, full stop.

But here he was sitting with this young priest anyway, the one who was going to ‘help’ him through his problems; who was going to use the power of god to heal him of his ills. He would have liked to see the power of prayer bringing back hacked off limbs, but he pretty certain that it didn’t work that way. He was also pretty sure that if he brought it up he would be swiftly put in his place. People were itching to tell him that god could heal him on a spiritual level, that god would suddenly make him okay with the fact that his life would never be the same again as long as John let god into his life.

John wished that people would keep their imaginary friends to themselves.

‘Especially this guy.’ Though John internally. This man, for some unknown reason, just seemed to encapsulate everything John hated about religion and the church in one single, vain, coiffed package. A part of him thought that he should be grateful that he was being offered any support and advice at all, but what rationality was left in him reminded John that Father Sebastian was only helping him as a favour to his mother. It wasn’t exactly difficult to miss how much Father Sebastian hated John, or the way that he would talk about him when he thought John wasn’t listening.

“Well it was a message from God really.” the priest would say, “Things come to us because of the things we do.”

And John knew exactly _why_ the priest said stuff like that as well. As though love was something that was evil, because that was all that John had ever done ‘wrong’; love.

Father Sebastian seemed to take great pleasure in making John write out passages from the bible to ‘practice his writing skills’. These were things that would help him in the long run with his fine motor skills he was assured, however John wasn’t so sure. He was fairly certain that the priest just enjoyed watching him stumble over the archaic language that his damaged brain cells couldn’t quite wrap themselves around.

Whenever John struggled to read them, the priest delighted in reading out the phrases in a malicious pompous tone. It just confirmed to John that the priest had picked them out to taunt him for his ‘faults’. Today Adam was having his bones ripped out of his chest by a God who worried about his creation being lonely. John almost found it funny that God would find it easier to create a whole new being than spend his time with the thing he brought into his world. Then he thought about his mother and the church and started to feel even more depressed than he had previously.

There was something in the way Father Sebastian curled his lips around the verses about god creating women to be companions for men that made John boil up with rage. Not only did John know exactly what the priest was trying to pry out of him with these verses, but he was also fairly sure that a more sexist sentiment was difficult to find anywhere. And what was more, he knew so many _women_ who suffered because of it.

He had made up his mind; he, wouldn’t, couldn’t put up with this man’s attitude towards him. He was certain, and just about self-aware enough to realise, that if he spent much longer in this man’s company then not only would he be unable to progress, but he would probably be forced backward just to protect what was left of his mind from this man’s onslaught of bigotry. There was too much he had already lost to risk losing anymore.

He scrawled out bitter verses with a shaking hand, learning neither how to read again, nor how to write, nor how to put back together the pieces of his fragile mind. Instead he had to spend his limited energies trying to pull up barriers to the pain, like a man without a home futilely raised up walls of cardboard against the north wind. He was only saved by the reappearance of the mother who had all but isolated him from help and support. Instead she had thrown him into another confessional, another service, another one of her obsessions with prayer and penitence.

She was just as crazy as he was, it was simply that her crazy was deemed socially acceptable.

“Mother,” John began questioning in the quiet of the car, “Can I speak to you about Father Sebastian?”

“Isn’t he simply wonderful,” his mother said, sweeping away any chance that John had to speak his own mind, “He’s exactly what this church needs; some fresh blood to keep our community alive in God.”

“But he…” John began, but he felt stupid for even trying, she just rambled on about this new man, not even noticing that John had stopped listening.

“You listen, John.” She said, “You’re going to learn so much from him. He would write you a fantastic reference to a theology college if you get to know him. I heard him talking about a young girl he had tutored that he had managed to get into Oxford. Can you imagine; going to Oxford to study theology? It would be so wonderful for you! Really help you go back to normal.”

But John had switched off at this point, no matter what his mother’s fanciful ideas of the future, John knew that he would never get into theology college, he had no vocation for such things, and despite the fact that lack of vocation didn’t seem to stop some priests, he knew that he had other dreams and ambitions that were preferable to devoting his life to a god he didn’t believe in. Learning how to cope on his new foot for half an hour without needing his wheelchair would be the first thing he wanted to prioritise personally.

She wasn’t even listening to him anymore though, she was in her own little world. She was probably just thinking of another priest, one that John had heard a little about in the church, but whose existence was very hush, hush at home. The man had been one of those flying priests, just hopping by for a three month stay in the local area before moving on to the next missionary post, a handsome, charismatic, dramatic character by all accounts whose presence swept people into a frenzy by all accounts.

What he _had_ heard was that the priest never stayed long in one place because he had never been very good at keeping his vows of celibacy. Amongst those affected he suspected was his mother.

John understood more about it when his mother invited Father Sebastian to dinner that next weekend. It was his own father that revealed the truth to him, though indirectly. He changed from his usually calm easy-going nature into something else, something hurt and wounded in a way that had never healed properly.

“I don’t see why you’re asking,” John’s father replied, his voice was calm but laced with venom, “it’s not as though you care what I think.”

“Well I’ve already asked him now.” His mother demurred defensively, “It’ll seem terribly rude if we retract the invitation.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done something without checking if it’s alright. At least this time you’ve brought not brought some bastard into this house.” his father snapped suddenly, and his mother looked as though she had been slapped across the face. Her face as pale as ash and hands shaking.

Suddenly it made so much sense in a way that it never had before.

Although, to another ear, it might seem that his father was saying that she had had an affair in the marital bed, he knew, he was acutely aware, that his father meant John. Well _not_ his father he supposed. It was now so clear; why his mother had always seemed ashamed of him, even before all this, why there was always such obsession about the fury of God and about the punishments the lord brought upon the unjust. She had had an affair that resulted in John, and unable to speak of her own misdeeds openly, had taken to seeing John as some cruel and unusual penance.

That was why she had been almost chipper about John’s accident, as though this was the last punishment that God would impart and she could now go back to normal. She was probably only sad that John hadn’t been killed outright so that she could be absolved of her transgressions.

That was why the older he grew the less his dad cared; he must have been the spitting image of this priest. The more he looked like his _father_ the more he started to alienate his father.

From that point on John fantasised about who his real father was.

He would dream of the day where his dad would arrive, suddenly having been made aware of his existence, and would want to take John away from this place. He would take John around the world with him, sharing his all-encompassing love of helping others in other countries and John could become a doctor to those who needed it most and he would, in turn, finally have the support group of people who cared what he did, not what he couldn’t change about himself. He would have the support group he didn’t realise that he had needed for longer than he knew.

So he waited, looking towards the horizon all the while.

~*~ 

That man never came. No-one ever came, and John supposed that some part of him was glad about it; he wouldn’t have been able to cope with the disappointment of the reality behind his vision of an ideal parent and in the unlikely event that he could have lived up to John’s expectations, at least he wasn’t here to see what had become of his son.

Waking up in the mental hospital after his brain forced him to re-live some of the many terrible moments that led him here was jarring. It was strange to see the blank walls staring at him as oppose to the mottled olive green walls of his old bedroom at home, it was also interesting to not have the scent of incense burning at his nasal passages or the sound of his mother saying Our Fathers in the living room. The still, the quiet and the calm were as distracting to him as his vision of what he had originally though a mental hospital ought to be like.

John realised what had awoken him, a sharp knock on the door had roused him from his strange recollections and whoever it was had been left waiting by the door for the time it took John to realise where he was. Hurrying as fast as he could with his straps not properly tightened, he got to the door to answer it. He was no overly surprised to see Mike there.

“Hello, John. Are you ready for our meeting?” he asked, ever jolly.

“Yeah,” he replied, apologetically, “sorry it took me a while, I was asleep.”

“Nothing to apologise for,” Mike insisted, “It’s good for you to get sleep. The brain needs it for stability. Shall we go?”

Leaning heavily on the door, John nodded, “Can you give me a minute?” he asked. “I haven’t got my leg on properly.”

“Of course,” Mike replied, “Do you need a hand? I know the straps can be tricky on your own the first few times.”

“I’ve been doing on my own for ages,” he admitted with a shrug, knowing it told Mike a lot about his family that John hadn’t really wanted to get into. “I’m used to it.”

To his credit, Mike didn’t seem to react at all, he wasn’t taken aback and didn’t try to give an outpouring of unwelcome sympathy; he simply nodded. “Well if you ever need a hand with it we’ve got plenty of staff here who are trained to help you with such things.”

“Thanks,” John mumbled; he didn’t really know what else to reply to that.

“I’ll just be out here and then we can get started.”

John didn’t spend to long trying to get the straps in place, he knew he wouldn’t be hiking a mountain any time soon, and as long as it was serviceable enough to get him to Mike’s office and back then he didn’t need to worry about things like blisters. To be honest he just wanted to get this whole thing over and done with.

The walk to Mike’s office was silent, which he again allowed himself a moment to appreciate. He had had quite enough of people trying to get him to talk; confessionals and lawyers and priests and judges. They all wanted him to talk in the way that meant that actually they wanted him to parrot off what they wanted to hear and that in an ideal world he would shut up and listen.

Mike’s office was ridiculously comfortable. John hadn’t really appreciated it before whilst he and his possessions were being searched for dangerous items, but the deep navy blue armchairs and light open windows gave the room the impression of absolute comfort. Sunny and peaceful John expected that given half the chance he could fall asleep again right there.

“We do this as fast or as slow as you want to,” Mike established, “I may ask you questions, but you never have to answer them. You’ll have regular meetings with me, but what you do with that time is entirely up to you. Do you understand?”

A part of John thought he’d test this ‘not having to answer questions’ thing by staying still and silent, but the thing was; he quite liked Mike and his easy-going personality. John didn’t want to make him think that he was a bad kid, or difficult, so instead he nodded his understanding.

“I’d like to ask you a few things John and remember; you don’t have to say anything you don’t want to, but first I wanted to see if you had any questions.”

John did, and though he thought that it might be tempting fate, he asked it anyway. “What medication are you going to put me on?”

It was something he had been fretting about, the idea that he would be filled with a cocktail of drugs until one fixed him seemed barbaric, but he couldn’t imagine that they would let him exist as he was with the potential for dangerous incidents such as the one that sent him there.

“We’ll assess that as we go along,” replied Mike reasonably, “I can’t say we won’t put you on a regime, but it is far more dangerous to put someone on the wrong drug than to not give them any medication. Is there anything else you’d like to ask?”

“No,” John said, “No, that’s it.”

The conversation with Mike was long and involved, discussing the events of his accident, the events of the _incident_ everything that came before and afterwards and John felt drained. True to his word, whenever John clamed up Mike didn’t force him to talk or respond, in fact he was very kind about the way he handled John’s case; a far cry from the rough interrogation of the police. It was wearing, but he felt that Mike was only asking him questions that would help John, he was only establishing how John felt, and how John reacted to the events of the past few years, and not worry about other people.

“That’s all I want to ask you for now.” Mike explained, “But if you have any other questions or queries we can stay here as long as you need.”

“I’m good thanks.”

“Then you’re free to go, dinner is going to be fairly soon. I’ll show you where you’ll have group therapy later, and then take you to the dining room. The rest of the evening is yours.”

They wandered through the hall and corridors towards the back of the house where they passed several rooms, “You’re with group B” Mike explained, pointing out a green door to the left “You’ll meet at two twenty in room one tomorrow. The groups are assigned on the grounds of non-conflicting needs, you won’t necessarily be able to understand some people’s problems, but through mutual sharing and understanding, you should be able to understand your own.”

That thought was terrifying. The idea of having to listen to other people struggle with severe needs and problems when he could hardly cope with what had happened to him made him nervous. “It’s a requirement to attend some sort of group therapy, because support networks are so crucial.” Mike explained, “If the group no longer is beneficial to your mental state then there is an option of moving, but we prefer if you don’t, at least to start off with.”

John nodded along vaguely, knowing that he’d probably forget everything that Mike was telling him. It wasn’t long before the hallway opened up in to a large dining room. There were sounds of life from there although they were slightly muted, confused.

“You can take whatever you like from here.” Mike continued to explain, “There’s a different hall for those with specific eating needs so you won’t be able to socialise with some people here, but there are other common areas. Breakfast hours are six ‘til half nine, Lunch from eleven ‘til two and dinner from five ‘til half seven to allow for people with different therapy groups to have time to eat. You’re free to choose when you eat within those times as long as you’re free, and if you really need to, there’s a kitchen space that residents can use outside of dining hours to practice the skills you’ll need once you leave the institute.”

Really John wanted some kind of recording device to get all this down. He felt like Mike just liked to give out information but that he wasn’t necessarily expecting John to remember it all. Perhaps he was hoping that five per cent would stick if he talked rapidly enough.

“Don’t worry,” Mike said eventually, seeming to understand John’s concerns instinctively. “This will all be in your personalised handbook. I just know that people never bother to read handbooks.”

Mike left John at the door, “It was great talking to you John. I’ll speak with you again soon.”

John quickly followed some of the other entering patients who were taking trays and giving their orders to the kitchen staff. It looked like any other canteen except that some of the people were accompanied by doctors and nurses who ordered for them. He watched as one girl silently pointed at different things and seemed to go through a series of non-verbal communications before she shuffled off to sit at an empty table.

Following her example John picked out a handful of foods from the array, all fairly bland items, but serviceable. There was plenty of oily fish and fresh vegetables, the sort of fare that was supposed to help repair brain function, and then a couple of plain, but fairly greedy, puddings to choose from. He took whatever was recommended and then made his way over to the table where he had seen the young woman go.

“Sorry,” he said standing a few feet away from the table, “do you mind if I sit here?”

John had thought he had asked very quietly, but the girl suddenly closed in on herself. She closed her eyes tightly, taking gulping breaths. John was about to walk away, obviously she had chosen this empty table for a reason, before she clenched her hands and nodded furiously.

He hesitated with his hand on the chair, before pulling it out and sitting down. “Thanks,” he offered.

She gave a little squeak, almost mouse-like, as if to say _don’t mention it_. She didn’t look at him though; she focused on the food in front of her, cutting it furiously into little pieces.

“Food good?” He asked, wondering if this was the sort of place he’d ever be able to make idle conversation.

She squeaked again in return, an almost positive lilt to it, though the sounds were hard to interpret, but looked up at him as though shocked that he would try to talk to her.

“What’s your name?” he asked her, curious about this little squeaking girl, “I’m new here you see and I was wanting to get to know some people, but…”

He paused as suddenly she rummaged through a bag of things, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. She put up her hand with another peep of sound, _please wait_ it said to him.

“I’m Molly.” She had scrawled on the page.

“John” he said, holding a hand out for her to shake, and then, as she recoiled from the gesture, he fell still. That sort of reaction did not bode well. He had heard of types of incidents that made people afraid of touch, and he didn’t want to imagine anything of the sort happening to this sweet, although slightly strange, girl. But he had to remind himself that he was in an institute for people with severe mental disorders. No matter how nice people were, there was going to be a lot wrong with them.

“I’m so sorry.” He said softly, resisting the urge to lean forward and comfort her “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She cowered in on herself, taking a few gulping breaths that were remarkably silent, before wiping tears from her face and bringing a shaking hand to the page once more.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” it read, “I’m trying not to be so scared of people, but at least I _know_ I shouldn’t be scared of you. That’s a big improvement for me.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” he insisted. “We’ve all got a lot to work through.” He consciously, slowly put his hands flat on the table where she could see them, see that he was unarmed and see that he wasn’t about to try and make a grab for her.

He felt like a fraud for not explaining his own problems; his periods of blackout and terror, the times when he curled in on himself and had to be forced to get out of bed, the incidents that had brought him to this institute in the first place, but he didn’t want to give her any more reason to be scared of him.

Tilting her head to the side she looked up at him through those big, beautiful, haunted eyes. She opened her mouth a couple of times, licking her lips as though trying to warm them up. “He-” she uttered, though it sounded more like a breath than a syllable. Though whatever it was she was meant to convey it certainly made her happy, because she broke into the world’s largest grin. She scribbled furiously on a new page.

“Hello,” she finished in writing “That’s awesome! I haven’t tried to speak to a complete stranger in years.”

Clearly shot through with some kind of adrenaline induced fearlessness she reached a hand to hover over his and John understood that he was to make no move whatsoever. She looked at his hand as though it were a particularly tricky rat trap, and made shifting movements back and forward as though judging the risks of trying to get the prize out of it.

Eventually she tapped an index finger on the back of his right hand and recoiled so quickly it was as though she had been shocked. She clutched her hand to her as though it pain, but was still smiling. Eventually she once again reached to write on the page.

“Sometimes my bravery is limited.”

“No,” John insisted, “You’re really brave. I honestly think you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

She smiled, soft and sweet, it was a smile quite far removed from the slightly manic grin of earlier. “You know what, John” he could see her scrawl, “I think I like you. I really hope you’re going to like it here.”

He didn’t reply but to return a smile of his own, but some part of him felt a strange sense of overwhelming agreement. He really hoped he liked it here too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say I would update in one to two weeks? I meant one plus two weeks... clearly.
> 
> This isn't well edited, I may make minor revisions later


	3. Oceanus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our hero faces love and spiders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was scaffolded before series three, so descriptions of certain minor characters may no longer fit with canon. Just a little bit. For now.

 

It all started a long time ago, when John was eleven, or maybe he had just turned twelve. It seemed strange that he could remember every detail about the day, what he was wearing, the weather, what he had eaten for dinner, the sights and the sounds, and yet something as simple as how old he had been at the time evaded him.

He hadn’t known he was different from other kids back then, but he had started to develop ideas of what _normal_ was. Normal was what people wanted; what you needed to be in order to fit in. Normal was the big boys in the playground. Normal was sports and rap and rolling your eyes when a teacher tried to tell you off. Normal was being cool and respected.

John didn’t feel particularly normal.

He did however have some of the respect of the ‘normal’ kids in the form of one Carl Powers. Carl was his very best friend; they had been friends as long as John could remember. He couldn’t recall, nor did he wish to imagine, a time where he and Carl hadn’t been close. He knew that Carl had other friends, the boys on his street and older cousins and kids in the playground, but John just had Carl, and he liked to think that Carl like John best of all in return.

They were in the same school, and this was a brilliant thing. Being in the big scary secondary school after the relative safety of incredibly tiny primary school they had been in before was daunting, but the continued stability he found in Carl was perfect. Even though they were in the same year, still little year sevens at the very bottom rung of the school system, Carl had ingratiated himself with some of the older groups, and as such had lent some sort of immunity to John. The immunity was greatly appreciated as these groups were full of people who would have otherwise had him their target. Or at least John suspected that they wanted to target him, they glared at him in the sort of way that suggested they weren’t too happy about tolerating his occasional presence.

As such he only spent some of his time with Carl at school, a lot of the time he ended up on his own, in his own little world or finding a place to himself in the library. He liked the library quite a bit; he liked books and stories and learning, but he also liked being outside where he could get the sunshine on his face. Especially after he learned how good it could be for him to get a little sunshine every day. It made him infinitely happier, and whenever he was outside, Carl made a point of sitting with him and talking with him to make sure that he was okay and had company.

Carl didn’t mind that John didn’t want to play football, or bulldog, or any of the other team games he would inevitably be terrible at. It was okay for it to just be the two of them hanging out with a little imagination, though he knew that they probably should have outgrown pirate games by their age. As long as Carl was happy to have him around, then he was happy to just be himself with the one person who accepted that with ease.

Sometimes he felt like there weren’t enough hours in the day to get bored of his friend. His friend who was so different to his family, so different to the other boys at school who didn’t understand John’s desire to be kind and helpful, so different to the teachers who, even when well meaning, didn’t have the time to spend making sure that he was alright.

He went to the same church as John’s family too, so he got to see him pretty much every day outside of school, even on Saturdays when they would play in the park, or out by the river. John’s mother approved of the friendship; Carl being a good young Catholic boy meant that she didn’t fear that they would be up to no good in her absence. He was the only friend she had ever really permitted him to have.

It was a good thing that he liked Carl so much. He couldn’t imagine only having one friend, only being allowed one friend, but having them be one who was an awful person. John was lucky that that simply wasn’t the case.

Carl saw him and spent time with him and understood him. Carl was the best.

So, leaning against the rocks by the river, hot and soothing beneath his back, sunshine seeping into his skin and feet submerged in the lazy cool of the water he looked at his closest and dearest friend and felt something jolt on the inside. Carl’s hair was golden and his eyes closed just enjoying the calm of the day after a particularly adventurous time hunting for frogs. As John took in this sight, something twisted inside his chest.

The desire to _do something_ was overwhelming. A shared something; warm and perfect and private, just between the two of them.

Whatever it was, he was terrified in the sort of way that he couldn’t justify. It was more than a fear of the unknown, but the fear was deeply ingrained and he didn’t even know _why_ he was afraid. He just knew that he wanted it – whatever it was – to happen before someone else realised how amazing Carl was, before someone _else_ decided that he was the best person in the world.

Before someone else got him first.

So there it was, the defining fear; he wanted Carl to be his. His in some undefinable way that he didn’t really understand. It was even more confusing because in John’s mind Carl already _was_ his to some indefinable extent. He was the person Carl chose to spend his time with and spend his time on. Surely if nothing else this meant that John had nothing to worry about. He just wished things make sense.

He didn’t get it.

And when Carl turned his eyes on him, and reflected in them was something equally warm and mysterious, he knew that he didn’t ever want Carl to look at anybody else that way. Just the thought of it hurt too much to even fully comprehend. He had to do something to keep the status quo. There must have been something that John had to do for Carl to remain his best friend and closest confidant like he had been before. His smile, warm bright and open was making John’s heart shatter into little pieces in a way that he had never experienced before. He couldn’t comprehend the way that it was almost a good shatter, as though it was nice to hurt like this.

He was pretty certain he never would 

Then the next day Carl didn’t speak to John, he smiled at him from a distance and made him seem as though he knew a secret that John didn’t. Whenever John started as though he was going to head towards him, he gave their universal signal for _not now, later_ and then wandered off in some random direction to leave John standing there, bemused and unsure.

He still didn’t get it.

John, in return, stayed in the library instead, trying to get himself under some semblance of control, which resulted in him flicking through the all but unused Encyclopaedia Britannica volumes that sat in the back of the library where no-one ever disturbed John. He looked up the various diseases that could have caused his multitude of strange symptoms. Currently he was fairly certain he had some form of brain tumour, type two diabetes and a rare form of African sleeping sickness, despite the fact that he had never been to, nor had he been exposed to anyone who had visited any part of Africa.

He was just wondering how likely it was that he was going through the menopause when the bell rang signalling the start of lessons. There was only a little time before the end of school and after that point he would be able to decide which of these illnesses that he was actually afflicted with and then promptly forget all about them as soon as Carl turned up at the gate after school. From there they walked together to their respective homes, normally stopping at one or the other house in order to play a few games.

So when instead Carl suggested that they headed straight down to the river again, John was surprised, but definitely not unhappy about the suggestion; it was their place after all. Carl’s presence at the river had overtaken the significance of his family’s bible reading sessions by the cool waters. Now it was John’s river. Carl’s river. Together they created a whole world there built just for the minds of the two of them.

John swished his feet in silence. He wasn’t sure what it was that Carl wanted to talk to him about, but he was happy to just be sitting there, the two of them enjoying each other’s company together without fear of anything. Not that there was anything to be afraid of. John had dismissed all of his previously suspected symptoms on the way over here.

John wasn’t scared.

Carl on the other hand did look a little nervous, he looked shy and unsure. If there was one thing that Carl Powers never seemed to be; it was unsure of himself. He was a certain and determined boy with the brains and drive to make it happen, so the jittering way he was reaching into his bag fiddling with something hidden and smiling to himself as if to reassure John for some unknown reason was both bemusing, and slightly endearing.

He didn’t say anything; he just set his face in a way that showed John that his mind was made up; Carl simply pulled out the small wrapped parcel and handed it to him with a look of anticipation and expectation on his face. As though by touching the parcel John would understand what was happening.

“It’s not my birthday,” He mentioned, as though Carl would forget, and blushed a little holding the precious offering within his hands, taking care to treat it delicately. Again, Carl didn’t speak, but he gestured at John to open it and John did so cautiously and slowly, opening the wrapping that had been clearly done by a pre-teen male, but that seemed so lovingly put together.

It was a CD more than that, it was a mix CD a series of songs that strung together their friendship. On the track listing, scribbled on the front of the case were little things like ‘track 1 – message 1’. It was a collection of songs and messages and it was so perfect that John thought he might cry.

“This is for me?” John asked, though clearly it was, as emblazoned on it in big letters were the words, ‘For John’. Carl shrugged as though it was nothing, although John knew that it must have taken a really long time to put together.

In a flash of bravery John leaned over and placed a small kiss on Carl’s cheek in appreciation (it was more like the corner of his grin, but John wasn’t quite brave enough to admit _that_ much.). They both blushed and stared at the shale under their feet as if it had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. Hidden glances from the corners of downturned eyes met each other and they both smiled, open honest grins. Carl’s dimples lighting up his face in a way that John was sure was cheating.

“Thank you.”

They didn’t say anything more, eventually making their way back when they realised that their parents would probably be looking for them to herd them towards their respective dinners. Saying goodbye with a tight hug that John felt deeper than anything he had felt before.

‘I want to hug you with my ribs.’ The phrase ran through his head. He had never really understood it before, but now it made so much sense, the idea that you want to be so close to someone, to never let them go.

The sensation was overwhelming, but it was perfect. As strange as it felt to be wanting to get so close that he couldn’t breathe, it was warming and safe. He felt like he could cope with it as long as Carl kept looking at him like that, if he did then everything would be okay.

John didn’t go to sleep that night; instead he decided to listen to the songs on the tape. Then he listened again. Through the third play through of songs - ones that varied in message, but all gave John the same feeling of being cherished, cared for, thought about, - John decided that he couldn’t leave this gift unreturned.

He snuck downstairs to the family computer. His parents allowed one in the house because they knew that John and Harry needed it for school, as well as their father needing the new broadband for work, but they didn’t let him use it except for homework. Being quiet as he could make himself be he turned the computer on, dimming down the monitor as much as possible for fear that someone might see the light, even though he knew that the entire family was asleep.

Working through the night, he listened to songs through his sister’s old headphones. Using the basic sound recorder that came with the computer and the ‘microphone’ that didn’t exist, he was able to capture songs from the LaunchCast radio that he knew he liked. He wondered what his mother would think of John’s knowledge of the website. It certainly wasn’t Christian music; that was for sure.

John picked out songs of love and desire and songs that made him feel the same tightness in his chest that he had felt earlier that day. He worked with a desperation that came from the fear that he would forget this feeling if he left it too long. Fear that, if he waited around to see what happened, something might change. So he copied the files, burned them onto the disk and then carefully erased the internet history in the way that Carl had taught him to do at school once.

By the time he was satisfied with his work it was well into the small hours of the morning. He hid the CD under his pyjama shirt and poured himself a glass of water so that he could give himself a reason to be out of bed if anyone noticed his presence as he tried to climb the stairs.

It seemed a stroke of luck that no-one noticed his movements that evening and instead he was able to climb into bed for a peaceful, if brief sleep. This was the best day ever, and he couldn’t wait to see how tomorrow would top it. Things were only going to get more perfect from here on in. He could feel it.

That’s what he’d thought anyway.

But when he had gotten to school the next day Carl didn’t walk with him. Carl barely turned up to registration in the morning on time, a thing that he had never been late for; he always had had a thing about being punctual. He spent the first few lessons in absolute silence, back turned to John and not raising his head. Even from John’s angle it was clear that something was desperately wrong with this situation.

As everyone had headed out to the playground at break, Carl had stayed behind in the classroom, his head down, packing things quietly into his school bag. John didn’t know if Carl was actively avoiding him, but it seemed as though he wasn’t making the effort to start a conversation. John waited until the last of the stragglers had packed up and left and then walked over to his friend.

Tapping him gently on the shoulder, he waited for Carl to look up at him, it took several moments before he turned around, a look of sadness and resignation on his face, it was easy to tell the emotion, even through the bruising that graced the side of his face, large and ugly and creeping up to the side of his eyes. It was as though he had had the side of his head smashed into the ground.

John noticed the teacher looking down at the papers on her desk, eyes flitting to the two of them and making notes on the back of scrap, John swore he could see the vague shape of a head that was being drawn, with shading that looked awfully like the bruises on Carl’s face. He didn’t know what she was doing, but he felt equal parts relieved and terrified by it, her concern amplified his own.

“What happened?” John asked, raising his hand tentatively to the bruising.

There was a beat of silence before Carl broke out into an uneasy grin, still beautiful, but it made John slightly nervous. “Nothing,” he insisted, “it’s a bit dumb really, I was trying to move that book case in my room from the corner to get a piece of paper I’d dropped and the thing fell on me. I’m going to have bruises everywhere for weeks.”

John didn’t believe it, he just knew in his heart of hearts that it was a lie, the damage was too deep, too violent, too concentrated to be anything but an attack by another person, and if Carl was lying, John couldn’t understand why.

“Come on,” Carl said, breaking the silence. “I want to get a drink.”

They walked together over to the drinking water tap, the one that was far away from the main playground and kind of isolated, and sat down in the sunshine. It was so similar to yesterday, but somehow everything had changed.

“I’ve got something for you.” John said, playing with the strap of the rucksack still on his back. “If, you know, you want it.”

Carl stood from where he was bent over to drink from the stream of water. “Sure.” He replied, but he didn’t seem all that certain that he should accept whatever it was that John wanted to give him.

John zipped open his bag and got out the CD holding it out in two gently shaking hands. Carl for his part seemed grateful, he took the CD without any preamble, admiring it, although he didn’t even know what was on it, the gesture seemed to be enough.

Being much taller, it wasn’t that difficult for Carl to wrap his hand around the back of  John’s head, pulling it forward to place a single affectionate kiss in his hair. John blushed deep red, maybe everything was normal after all. Perhaps the apparent tension and avoidance had just been because Carl felt sore after having the bookcase land on him. They went back to their lessons and Carl almost went back to normal. John’s heart was loaded heavily with the optimism that comes with the start of something new and exciting.

But then John saw him throw it in the rubbish after school. The CD, his optimism, his heart.

He rushed out of the door at the end of school before John had a chance to catch up, and what he witnessed was Carl taking the CD out of his bag and holding it between his fingers, looking at it carefully and then hiding his face behind it as if composing himself before it got unceremonially dropped into the bin by the gates.

John was too shocked to try and retrieve it, or to try to catch up to Carl. He was kind of glad he didn’t, because Carl’s dad turned up, eyes like fire, and frogmarched him away with a tight grip on his arm that John was certain must have been painful

And John was left all alone, standing in the playground wandering what was wrong.

 

~*~

“Then what happened, John?”

John looked at Mike, unimpressed. “You know what happened then; you’ve read the case notes.”

Mike, for his part, was as unchanging as ever. “Yes, I know what happened then, but I’d like to hear the details from you, if you want to tell them to me. If you don’t want to tell me then you don’t have to, but this is a sharing time. I hope you continue to feel that this is the case. I don’t care about what happened, John. I care about how _you_ feel about it.”

That was enough talking for today. John wanted to share his thoughts with Mike, he really did. No-one ever wanted to listen to his side of the story properly before then. He knew that allowing John to relay his memories without bias or expectation showed more kindness than some people would exhibit in their lifetimes, but it was tiring to relive them. It hurt just as much as it did at the time to see that part of himself thrown away to carelessly.

Despite John being sure, with a fairly adamant conviction, that he was not an evil person at heart, and that the things that happened all fell upon each other in a series of unfortunate events, he did think that he had done some terrible things, for reasons that he still couldn’t get a proper handle on. Reasons that weren’t good enough. He didn’t understand what it was that he was supposed to be feeling half the time. Was it guilt and remorse? Sadness and anger? Bitterness and despair?

Sometimes he felt like he could feel none of these properly, that he was numb to the bone, and sometimes he felt as though he felt all of these so strongly that he might explode from the sheer force of them whirling their way through him all at once. He knew that Mike meant well, but John had spent a long time perfecting the art of trying not to care, and he wasn’t going to risk that now. He might not have been very good at it, but what defences against the world he had put up were invaluable, and he couldn’t afford to let go of them, not yet.

The rest of the session was completed in silence. John was drained, and didn’t feel much like talking anymore, and without any adequate responses, Mike had stopped asking his normal array of questions. It had been nice to use the quiet and warm of the room to just let his mind have a break. He fell short of actually falling asleep in the comfy armchair, but only just. He didn’t know what it was about this particular chair, for there were many just as good in the room, but the plump, red, squishiness of it was like a siren call. He didn’t like the idea that other people might have chosen the same chair to have their therapy sessions in, he felt a unique sort of ownership over it.

He always had been a little possessive, but he was always too weak, too polite, too scared to do anything to stake a claim on what he thought was his, back then and now. He had never learned how to hold onto something that he wanted, and he didn’t know if he ever really wanted something enough to try.

About five minutes before the end of the session, Mike broke John’s quiet reverie. “Is there anything else that you need John? Is the room comfortable enough for you? We’ve got to make sure that your needs are accommodated.”

“You mean my leg?” John said, fed up of pussyfooting around the topic, he had been doing that for long enough with his mother. He knew that Mike was still scoping out the situation, making sure that he was coping with everything or whatever, but he really didn’t appreciate people pretending like nothing was different.

“Yes, John.” Mike replied without condescension, “I mean your leg. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No,” insisted, falling back into the catholic upbringing that had been shoved down his throat, “I’m sorry. I just prefer people not to talk in riddles and innuendo, it makes life more complicated that it needs to be.”

Mike scribbled something quietly onto his pad of paper that sat beside him. He didn’t write on it all the time like films had led John to believe he would, but there were definitely points where he picked up on something he seemed to need to take a note of. “I quite agree, John. Your preferences are duly noted.”

“Thanks.” He said, closing his eyes and riding out the time, “and no, I don’t need anything.”

“Glad to hear it.”

~*~

It was quite some time before John had to head off to his first group therapy session, and he felt as though he had nothing to do. He didn’t know anyone here, he didn’t know if he wanted to get to know people here when they all seemed so delicate, and he really didn’t want to risk losing anyone right now. People would rotate through here like a carousel, and getting attached to a person only to have them disappear again and again seemed like too painful a situation to let himself be in. He supposed that he could make friends with others of the long term residents, but the longer that people had to be here, the more messed up he imagined them to be.

He wasn’t strong enough to deal with fragile people.

In the end he decided to go and sit in the garden. They said sunshine was good for a person, he remembered that, and he didn’t mind all that much the idea of watching people pick flowers or vegetables or whatever it was that they did out there. If they were quiet and kept themselves to themselves then he couldn’t imagine that it would hurt him very much.

He had sat down on the bench, mid-day sun shine beaming down on his face, although it wasn’t as warm as the days that John had been describing to Mike, the similarity was mocking and he was very close to having to give up and go back inside. Talking about the past made it too raw, too fresh to have any reminders of it. Then again sitting inside on his own in the darkness of his room would have probably made him think of midnight playings of that damn CD.

Barely a few moments - or it might have been a few hours - had passed when the sun was gone; blocked out by a hovering presence.

“I need to be seated where you’re seated.” A voice came, low and rumbling, causing John to be taken aback.

“I’m sorry?” he questioned, wondering what it was that he should do. And why this particular space was so important when the entire garden appeared to be almost empty.

There was a sigh of irritation. “The spot you’ve so carelessly decided to sit in is the only spot in the entire facility where one can apply nicotine patches without being noticed; as such I need the space with far more urgency than you do, so if you would move out of the way, I’d be most obliged.”

The voice was not one that was explaining with the care and consideration that he had come to expect from this place. Instead was haughty and irritated, as though speaking to another person was a task to be endured at great personal cost, rather than a simple every day method of communication. He hardly thought that this stranger had the same troubles with communication that the girl from yesterday had had; whoever it was seemed remarkably verbose.

John, too tired to bother with conversation or arguments with someone who could have been violently psychopathic for all he knew, simply shifted to one side of the bench and let the stranger sit down where he had sat, which he did hesitantly after giving John a look that suggested he didn’t understand why he insisted on continuing to bother him with his presence.

Now that he wasn’t completely shielded by the sun, John was able to get a good look at the stranger. The first thing he noticed was ‘bloody, buggering fuck; cheekbones’, because anyone would be a fool not to notice them. The retroussé nose, charcoal curls, ashen skin, sharp blue-green eyes and plump curved mouth, made for a stunning picture but his features were put together in a way that made him seem slightly awkward to look at. As though all the perfect parts of other people were haphazardly thrown into one person, or at least it seemed that way. By no means was the boy anything other than completely stunning, but he was definitely not classically handsome, he was far too unique for such a term.

John realised having been staring for far longer than he probably should, especially at a fellow mental patient. Not a good idea. Not a good idea at all.

The stranger turned and looked at him once more as if silently asking what it was that he wanted.

“Sorry.” John said again, he apologised so much. The more he noticed it the more of an irritation his own voice became to him.

“Unless you’re intending to relay to a member of staff the whereabouts of the nicotine patches, then I would prefer it if you saved your apologies and remained silent.”

“Okay.” John replied, and went back to absorbing as much sunshine as possible.

The boy paused again staring at John, with a look of consideration. “Most people just leave.” He remarked, clearly put off by John’s presence, reaffirming to John that everyone here was messed up, even the pretty ones.

He gave a half-hearted shrug in response, “Don’t feel like it.”

Staring as though reading a book, the boy finally seemed to decide that John’s presence wasn’t a threat and retrieved a box from some carefully concealed hiding place. John hadn’t noticed the box when he sat down, but then again he hadn’t really been looking for it.

John idly noted the boy putting the patch on the inside of his elbow. He had thought that the stranger would then leave, but he carefully placed another, and another.

“Is that three patches?” John asked with mild alarm, he remembered what nicotine did to a person’s bloodstream, and he was fairly sure that it wasn’t healthy to have that much.

“Helps me think.” He said with a deep sigh, clearly finally getting the chemicals to his brain.

“What is it you’re thinking about?”

The grunt of frustration signalled to John that he either found his question tedious in the extreme or that he was struggling with what exactly it was he was trying to think about. “Green Ladder.” He replied eventually and then seemed to relax.

John shifted uncomfortably, “Alright.”

Eventually discomforted by the silence he decided to carry on a conversation with his temporary companion. “So, I’m John.” He said by way of introduction “Who are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, I’m a higher-functioning sociopath who suffers from mild paranoia as well as a reasonable level of cocaine addiction.” Rambling off the diagnosis as though it was a well-practiced habit.

“Well that was very honest.” John said taken aback by the interpretation of his own question. “I hadn’t really expected you to say anything like that.”

“I find lying when it is unnecessary, tedious in the extreme, and it was likely only a matter of time before you posed the question that you really wanted to ask.”

John mulled that over for a moment, before admitting, in the comfort of his own mind, that it probably _was_ the question he wanted to ask. It was in human nature to as the questions _why_ , and this place was undoubtedly full of them. If had started asking the why questions, then he didn’t see a reason not to continue with them.

“So, why not in rehab?”

“Do you think they’d send someone as young as me to rehab?” he commented with a hint of amusement, “Certainly not when there’s enough money to throw at the ‘problem’. No; rehabilitation centres generally are just to help people to quit and stabilise before they go back into the ‘real world’ where they will carry on with their drab lives rebuilding to some semblance of ‘normal’ or they will descend quickly back into addiction until they become a human yo-yo; bouncing back and forth between one place and the next.

“My brother subtly suggested that for me to become an ‘addict’ so young there must be severe underlying problems that would be better suited to a mental asylum. I think that he knew that father dearest wished to send me away for one reason or another and knew my mind would stagnate a little less in here. People are puzzles, John. I suppose he does care for me, in his own weird little way.”

John was once more astounded by the torrent of information. John had been in the presence of this boy for less than half an hour, and already he had been told more about his life than he had ever understood about people he had known for years.

“So what about the rest?” he asked, the question was open, he didn’t really know what the question was in the first place but he certainly wanted to know the answer, even if it was just to know exactly what it was he had been trying to ask.

“The only underlying problem I have is boredom.” He protested, reclining on the communal bench without a care for John’s personal space. Considering the amount of people who must have had issues with physical boundaries in this place, it was terribly callous of him.

“Boredom?” John enquired.

“I need a puzzle, I need to put the pieces together and make them fit. Everything has its place and if it’s not then I _must_ know why _._ Drugs seem so far to be the best diversion from how cripplingly dull everything is.” He rambled on, jumping between topics without any seemingly real logic.

“Father dearest sent me away after I had already deduced that he was having an affair, and that mother’s alcohol addiction was started by his actions. Though for her not to have commented on it she must have been pretty happy about getting blind drunk in the first place. They were hardly puzzles. they were more like a dot to dot. The shape was obvious from the off. I need a proper case!” He exclaimed loudly, disturbing a little girl digging in the middle of the garden.

“Are you on something now?” John ventured, listening to the intensely rapid, but still completely coherent ramblings of the young man before him.

“If only.” And then the boy stared intently at him until he could feel the heat rising up his neck.

‘No,’ he thought to himself severely, ‘a clearly out of his mind, socially inept drug addict is a bad choice. Bad brain.’ But he couldn’t help it; this boy was the first attractive person he had met who was voluntarily talking to him for years. If there had been someone more appropriate for his brain to latch onto, he was sure that he would have done it.

“I guess you want to hear why I’m here then?” John said trying to diffuse the weirdly uncomfortable tension that had risen.

“No need. You almost hurt someone resulting from a bought of post-traumatic stress disorder which until recently had been ignored by otherwise uncaring parents and probably an overbearing sibling which culminated in your ‘rage out’. And your therapist thinks your repressed homosexuality has something to do with your anger.”

“Did you read my notes?” John said, now worried, that he had unintentionally picked up the institute’s stalker. How closely would they manage people with severe attachment disorders? John would have to be safe _here_ … wouldn’t he?

The boy looked unimpressed, John would even go as far as to say mildly insulted, with his question.

“No need,” he said, as though pointing out the obvious, “You told me everything as you walked through down the path earlier. Your gait is slightly one sided, in a very specific manner that is suggestive of compensating for non-working weight; this suggests to me severe injury resulting in your limb being damaged beyond feeling or missing all together. Judging by your flinch, I’m forced to assume that your leg is indeed fake. This suggests that you’ve sustained a severe injury relatively recently and at your age, post-traumatic stress disorder is likely.” He took a deep breath and sat up scrutinising John further.

“So then, why not a hospital? The way you seemed perfectly comfortable jogging up to the bench suggests that you’re well used to the prosthetic, so no need for physical rehabilitation; that happened long ago. Something else brought you here. You’ve clearly got a therapist of some kind, but not a very good one, or you wouldn’t be here. You can’t have actually hurt a person otherwise you’d be in a secure centre, but your presence in the garden during the day suggests that you’re neither a day resident, who would leave after their session, or a short term resident whose brief visits are more highly structured. This suggests long term residency. The quickest way to land yourself in long term residency without an evaluation session is through police intervention, so either you tried to hurt yourself or another person, and as you aren’t on suicide watch it must have been someone else whom you attacked.”

John paused, “And my sexuality?” he enquired gently, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

The boy sent him a look that scoffed ‘ _please’_ , but he indulged John by explaining anyway. “You’re clearly in no mind to ever seriously think about sexuality and relationships, you’re in a mental institution.” This last part was pointed out as though John might not be aware of this fact, “but the human body shows basic attraction far too easily.” The smirk added, with a quirk of an eyebrow made John feel a little sick. He was right; John really wasn’t in the right headspace to really process attraction for another human being without starting to go into mental shutdown.

“Right…” John said, finally processing everything that was explained to him carefully. “That,” he added after a careful pause “was amazing.” John said sitting back, slightly in awe of this kid, not even realising that he had lent in towards this boy in order to listen intently to his deductions.

“Really,” he added, face holding some sort of hope and curiosity.

“Of course it was,” John insisted, “it was incredible, absolutely increasable.”

The boy looked mildly surprised, and more than that, surprised that he had been surprised. “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say then?” he enquired.

“Piss off.” He stated bluntly.

The stupid giggles that bubbled up were unexpected; certainly such things had been a rarity for a long time. Even if John had felt anything akin to a sort of happiness, he still didn’t have anyone near him who had wanted, or tried to make him laugh. He hadn’t anticipated that this stranger would be able to bring that out in him, but he had done so surprisingly easy.

“I’m John. John Watson.” He said eventually, feeling that the lack of introduction had been remiss, even if this boy seemed to be able to read his every thought.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes. I’m in group B, and I assume by your reaction, that you are too.”

“How…? Never mind.” He said. He hadn’t even been aware that he had had much of a reaction to Sherlock’s words. That too gave him pause. Sherlock; it rolled so neatly off the tongue, completely bizarre, but somehow elegant and refined, it sort of fit. He rather liked it.

But if John were to continue to keep company with his, then he would probably have to school himself in the art of hiding his thoughts. He had always thought he had been good at keeping secrets, but what was the point in secrets when he wore his heart on his sleeve?

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked, gently, almost as though he didn’t really expect an answer.

John considered this carefully. “My parents did send me here because I almost hurt someone, I am suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder that brought on an episode of instability, my sister is incredibly overbearing, and the person I talked with outside of here was concerned about my homosexuality.”

“Spot on then, didn’t expect to be completely right,” a smug satisfaction lacing the voice, and calming the owner of said voice.

“The only therapy I had was with the priest, who made his opinions on my sexuality quite clear. He thinks I should be trying harder to get rid of the sin. I personally am less worried.”

“Your priest?” he said, and stood up once again a flustered powerhouse of energy.

“Where’s everyone going?” John said looking up at Sherlock who was now striding away, following a few of the others, but seemed to think that the conversation was continuing.

“Priest, there’s always something.” He called, clear voice ringing through the air, startling some of the inhabitants of the garden who weren’t heading inside all of a sudden.

“No seriously,” John insisted, jogging to catch up, “Where’s everyone going?”

“Inside, obviously.” Sherlock said as if explaining the concept to a very small child.

John had to fight himself to not roll his eyes at his new friend; he had only just met the man and John’s own personal psychosis had made it difficult to have friends at all. It wouldn’t do him any good to isolate himself now, especially when it seemed he would be living in such close quarters with the boy if he too was a long term resident.

It was only when they had gotten inside that John realised where it was that everyone was heading. The clock had just struck the hour, and people were going, therefore, back and forth between their different groups. It didn’t seem like anyone looked at a watch or saw a clock, and yet everyone knew when exactly to move on.

“I didn’t hear anything telling us that it was time to go in.” John remarked, finally catching up to the heel of Sherlock, and finding this mass exodus slightly strange.

Sherlock looked remarkably patient, he clearly liked having an attentive audience, “They don’t use bells or alarms here; it might trigger bad signals in some of the residents. Most people just keep an eye on the clock. If you don’t make it to meetings under your own steam sufficiently well then people start to find you to bring you along instead. No matter what the ethos of the place, by its very nature we get limited freedoms here; no-one would risk them over something as simple as not being punctual.”

“I guess.” John acquiesced, but Sherlock didn’t reply, striding towards the room where the group therapy session would be held.

He burst through into the room flopping down on a dull worn leather chair, but looking for all the world like he inhabited that space, there was no question that it was ‘his’, in so much as anyone truly owned anything here. He then sat up leaning forward eager to begin, gesturing vaguely to the empty chair to the right of him as he flicked those all seeing eyes from person to person.

“I wouldn’t have thought this would be your sort of thing.” John commented, “Group therapy.” He added for clarity when Sherlock did not see fit to respond.

“Hm?” he said turning sharply toward John as though the question had finally caught up with him. “Oh, that, right. No, I’m not particularly interested in the supposed benefits of pouring out your problems to strangers in an effort to make oneself feel better, but you have to show a certain level of enthusiasm or people start watching you too closely, and, as you might imagine, I don’t want that to happen. I do rather like the people watching that comes with it though. Especially the silent ones.”

“Anything I should know?” John enquired, torn more and more between the duelling ideas that told him having Sherlock as an acquaintance was a really terrible idea, and a really amazing one.

“Not at the moment, one or two of them are more unstable than the others, but for the most part we’re labelled a self-destructive group. A range of reasons how and why of course, but that’s always going to be the case. Some of them are good people to know when looking for forbidden items.” The matter-of-fact tone that Sherlock took suggested that he knew this first hand, rather than guessing it through any of his range of deductive skills, although, John reasoned, he seemed to have enough faith in those to get by.

It was only a matter of a minute’s boredom before Sherlock was softly rattling off deductions about those around them. This particular girl had had several demeaning affairs with older teachers. This boy was prone to bouts of suicidal depression brought on by feelings of intellectual inadequacy. This one suffered from acute paranoia that had caused him to obsessively ‘stalk’ someone who didn’t exist. And so on. The deductions kept coming as people came in and sat down. Only the meanest glimpse into their lives, but enough that John wondered whether Sherlock was really psychic. Then again to wonder such things in a place like this would probably land him in an extended stay.

“What about this one?” John added picking out one boy as the last couple of patients trickled in late when Sherlock had treated his entrance with stony silence. The boy looked exhausted, massive bags under his deeply sunken eyes that could have been mistaken for stage make-up.

“Along came a spider.” Sherlock said, a little ominously.

“What?” John asked, mostly bemused, the boy looked more ill than the rest of them, and definitely nothing like threatening. It was strange that Sherlock had this attitude towards him when he seemed reasonably logical and definitely clinical to a fault.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted, a turn of phrase that seemed to physically pain him, “he just puts me in mind of one, though by all accounts he’s harmless. He’s a relatively short term resident. His parents died in a house fire in the middle of the night, and he was unable to sleep for fear the same would happen to him. He’s only ever here for a few weeks at a time to get some rest, but he yo-yos.”

John looked at the boy trying to see what it was that Sherlock was seeing, but he just saw the same thin fragile creature as before. He drew John towards him in a strange sort of way, but unlike with Sherlock, John couldn’t really see why.

“Hello everyone,” came the voice of an older woman, she looked like the perfect grandmother. Warm, sweet and smiley, John took a shine to her immediately, even though everything inside him kept telling him to stop forming attachments to people here, that it would not do him any good. “My name is Martha, and I will be running these group sessions. For those of you who are new, we’re going to do a circle of success. A chance for you to share something that’s made you feel good, something that’s helped you progress.”

As the introductions and confessions blurred past in a series of forgettable names and faces, John started to panic, unable to think of a single thing that would fall under that category. He had only been there a couple of days, far too soon to think anything that could have been called a ‘success story’.

By the time it was the turn of the spider boy who was a few seats away from him around the circle, and John was still at a blank.

“Hello everyone, my name is Jim and I managed to sleep for fifteen minutes without having a nightmare.” He said, with a tired smile, though he did seem genuinely proud of his accomplishment.

John barely registered what the next people said, and then it was his turn. “Hi.” He choked out, feeling panicked by the whole affair. “I’m John, and I sat in the gardens today.”

He felt so stupid as he said it. What was there to be proud of about sitting in a garden? And yet there were the appreciative smiles of everyone around shared as if to say ‘Well done you, how brave you are.’ If they didn’t know what his issues were then perhaps they thought him agoraphobic, or maybe they just appreciated that new people didn’t have much to say.

Then it was Sherlock’s turn, and John actually paid attention. “I am Sherlock.” He said, skipping any form of greeting, “and I’ve found something that’s not boring.” There was a strange atmosphere around his words; people not being quite sure whether or not they should be happy about his response or not. John gathered that Sherlock was flippant in such sessions, so something that seemed so honest was probably off putting to them. People thought that John wasn’t perceptive, but that wasn’t true, he just couldn’t put those thoughts into any formal order.

Then as the success sharing continued to be passed around the room, Sherlock looked at John and smiled. It was actually more of a smirk than a smile, but it conveyed the same basic message ‘in case you were wondering, the not boring thing was you.’

For the rest of the session it was chance to share and listen, but both John and Sherlock remained almost silent. Some people seemed to like to talk a lot and so the time filled up without their assistance and, before he knew it, it was time to head off. Sherlock got up and dashed out of the door as soon as he was able, John following behind him, though he wasn’t really sure why.

“I have an individual session now John.” Sherlock said in the hall, when he noticed John was still with him.

“Alright then,” John said, “I guess I’ll see you at dinner?”

“No.” Sherlock said bluntly, leaving John a little shattered inside.

“Okay then.” John stuttered out quietly. He was used to rejection, this was what he told himself over and over again, but he had yet to actually convince himself that this was true.

Sherlock’s voice didn’t change from one of blunt explanation, but his words comforted John nevertheless. “I’m in the smaller dining hall, I find eating tedious at best, so they force it upon me here, but I’ll seek you out later. Goodbye John.” He said with a casual wave, striding away with a dramatic flair.

As he watched after the young man, he felt a little bubble of something akin to happiness well up in his chest. It was almost easy to forget that he had only known Sherlock for a few scant hours.

It was certainly going to be interesting here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience in this if you've come back to this story. I'm probably not going to get much quicker, but it will always be updated! Much loves.


	4. Ífingr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our hero thinks of hopes of the past, fears of the present and dreams of the future.

John went home on the day he saw Carl’s bruises in a cloud of confusion. He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened that day. Why was it that Carl had decided that he didn’t want to keep John’s present? Perhaps he should have asked why carl _couldn’t_ keep John’s present, even if he had wanted to.

Against his better judgement he had originally accepted Carl’s explanation of how he had got his bruising at face value. Whilst some part of him was certain that someone _must_ have hurt him, he eventually considered that he must have been fine, because Carl had acted the same way that he always had in school.

Then it had all changed and John was forced to return to his other theory. What was it that had happened? How had Carl gone from a happy chirpy lad to a battered and scared little boy? He simply couldn’t fathom a single reason why _anyone_ would want to hurt Carl. He didn’t know anyone who could have wanted to hurt him this much. The problem, he had thought later on in life, was that it was difficult to protect other children when you yourself were a child.

Carl had spent many a day being John’s friend, respecting his feelings and being nice to him. John spent a lot of time wondering how he could have deserved a friend as wonderful as Carl. Now, more than ever, John felt that he _didn’t_ deserve Carl as a friend. Carl had done something amazing for him, given him a taste of something exciting and new, and now that something had hurt his friend.

John could do nothing but stare and wonder what had happened. If he were a good friend he would have been finding out and working out what happened. He would be stopping it from ever happening again, not sitting like an idiot, nursing his own wounds and wondering what went wrong.

Guilt was something John was used to. He was raised with the notion that people as a whole should feel guilty for a lot of different things. That didn’t mean, however, that he couldn’t tell the difference between what he _should_ feel guilty about, and what he actually _did_ feel guilty about.

John had trudged home, the fog inside his head swirling around. Guilt and confusion and powerlessness worked in equal measure to ensure that John felt as though he could do nothing in this situation, _and_ that he was a bad person for it. Slowly he reached upon a conclusion, milling it around in his head, as he was wont to do when he had long walks on his own. John would tell his mother, not only what happened but also what he thought had happened. He would leave out the bit about the mix tape, John for some reason still wanted to keep that part to himself.

If was to be a good friend he would have to get help from someone who was old enough to help. He knew that that assistance would always come in the form of his mother. Parents would always help is what his religion taught, John thought. His religion stated that if you were good for God then God would assist you. He had been really good for Mummy for years, and now he would ask something of her, and hopefully she could help.

He didn’t really understand why he didn’t want her knowing about the mix tape though. There was just something inside that told him that he should probably keep that part to himself, as though if he spoke of it, it might have invalidated the things that had made it special in his own head, even as he knew he didn’t know what made it specially. For John there was simply the absolute certainty that if he spoke of this, then something might happen that he didn’t want to happen.

When he got home mother was sitting in the kitchen chair, clasping on a rosary. It was one of John’s lasting images of her. It was a common sight, gentle movement of lips as she went over the same patterns again and again, looking for guidance or strength or forgiveness or whatever it was that his mother prayed for. He didn’t really know exactly what it was. He never thought it wise to ask 

“Good afternoon, John.” His mother said, soft smile stretching across her face, “Did you have a good day at school?”

John nodded at her; trying a smile of his own, before wandering to her open arms to give her a hug and receive a soft kiss on his cheek. The smell of rose water and powder was familiar and comforting.

“But something happened to Carl today I think.” He said, wondering what it was that gave him strength in that moment. If he could work out the pattern then he could feel stronger more of the time, be a better person, be a more useful person.

“Oh?” she said, placing her rosary back in her pocket and pulling out a chair for John to sit down in. “What’s the matter? He’s a very good boy,” his mother reminded him, “you should look out for each other.

That was exactly what John had needed to hear in that moment. If anything was confirmation that he was doing the right thing, then his mother’s words proved it to him. Of course he would speak now. He would speak because it was his job to look out for Carl just as it was Carl’s job to look out for him as well. Carl had held up his end of the bargain, and now it was John’s turn.

John would ensure that Carl was safe.

“Carl came to school today with lots of bruises. I think someone hurt him, and his mummy needs to know so that she can stop whoever did it.” John said, all in one unceremonial breath. He gasped afterwards from the force of speaking so quickly, hoping that he didn’t need to repeat himself, because he didn’t know if his nerve could hold. Fortunately he didn’t, because from the look on his mum’s face, it was quite clear that she had understood well enough.

“Did he say what happened?” his mother asked, “How are you sure?”

“He said a bookshelf fell on his head, but his bruises where on his eyes, and his cheeks and all the side of his face, and I kept thinking that a bookshelf might hurt the top of his head, but not his face. Not like that. It was really bad. Maybe one of the big kids hit him?” John suggested, it had been one of the options that had gone through his head, but he felt that it wasn’t that likely. The big kids _liked_ Carl. They thought he was funny, or sweet, or innocently adorable with those credulous crater dimples of his.

He didn’t say any of this to his mother of course; she didn’t need to know about it. She would be able to find out just by asking, everyone knew that adults had to tell the truth to each other. His mother always told him that the truth was the most important thing, that lies hurt God, and that lies hurt each other. If you lied then you would be punished, it was simple. So if his mother asked Carl directly what had happened, then John would get to the bottom the problem quickly and easily.

“I think I best phone Mrs Powers…” she said, looking torn at the phone on the wall.

“Thank you, mummy.” He said flinging his arms around her waist.

“You go to your room and say your prayers John.” She said, patting the top of his head, “I’ll go phone.”

John nodded his head, and then dashed up the stairs, eager to do what his mother asked of him in order to ensure that she was happy to do what it was that he has asked of her. He needed for her to phone to help Carl. If she didn’t phone then he would never know what had happened, then Carl might get hurt again, and that was the last thing that he wanted.

He had wanted to be in the kitchen with his mother. He had wanted to listen to whatever conversation was had. He wanted to find out what had happened to Carl, find the person who had hurt him, and some darker part of himself wanted desperately to make that person pay for his or her actions.

Slightly shocked in himself, John felt that he should probably pray for forgiveness on that one. It wasn’t his place to decide what happened to people, it was God’s place really, and if someone had done something wrong, then it would have to be up to God as to what happened to them. ‘Judge not that ye not be judged’ was very important in John’s eyes. He’d always liked that bit of Matthew’s Gospel because of it.

It had seemed strange to him that people forgot this bit of the bible, especially since it came directly from Jesus. The idea that no matter what you thought about a person; it was never your place to decide what their sins were, and that you should never judge them because it wasn’t your place to judge, seemed imperative. The confirmation that no man could assume to know the will of God, and if a person decided that they knew the will of God then they were wrong, and false, meant something. That verse was important to John. Even if, for now, he didn’t understand why exactly.

He had to, therefore, make sure that he lived by those rules. He lived by the idea that if he was a good boy and did as he was asked, then everything would be okay. If he did something wrong, then it was up to God to decide what John should do about it.

 _Dear God,_ he said in his head, then apologised internally. There was that thing, the thing his mum told him about, about where you shouldn’t assume you’re allowed to talk to God directly and that you should speak through someone whom God has deemed worthy. There were a few things like that which John hadn’t really understood but he felt it made sense. It was like talking to the headmaster without asking a teacher first; it was a little bit rude.

 _Dear Mother Mary,_ He revised, _Can I please speak to God please?_

He sat there for a moment waiting, though he didn’t know what for. Perhaps to give time for her to go and check that it was alright with God. After a moment he assumed that it had been long enough, and started again.

 _Dear God,_ he said, _thanks for letting me speak to you. I’ve got all the normal things to pray about, but today I want to ask you for something in particular. My friend Carl got hurt recently and I was hoping that you’d look after him. I think someone hurt him, so I was wondering, if you’re not too busy, you could make sure that whoever it was doesn’t do it again, because I know that Carl doesn’t deserve to be hurt._

John wasn’t sure how long he knelt there by the foot of his bed, thinking of the same sorts of thoughts over and over again, just in case God missed it the first time. He just wanted to make sure that no matter what his mother could find out, and no matter what happened, the person he wanted to protect was protected.

He waited in his room after that, staring half-heartedly at his homework, wondering what it was that would happen now. His mother had been on the phone a long time, but if she was on the phone she really didn’t want to disturb her. Especially as this phone call was so important.

It wasn’t long after that, his mother’s footsteps sounded out on the stairs he was hopeful that she would have found out the answer, and she would have stopped the bad things happening again. When her face appeared at his door, he was not surprised that she looked worried, after all John had been worried about what had happened to Carl as well.

“Hello, Mummy” he asked, as she came in and sat on the bed, patting the space next to her to invite John to join her.

“John,” she said carefully, eventually, “I have been praying, and God had informed me of your sin.”

John was completely bemused. He didn’t understand where this conversation had come from. How could a sin possibly be related to what had happened to Carl?

“What sin?” John question, unsure of what his mother could have possibly meant through her statement.

“You know full well, John.” She seethed through gritted teeth, “Don’t test me.”

He still had no clue, he couldn’t even begin to process what it was without making his mother angry. “What about Carl?” he eventually asked, hoping that she had at least found out what had happened. “What happened to him?”

“It was just a bookshelf, John.” She snapped, “Carl had been a bad boy, and it was a punishment from God. If you don’t pray for forgiveness for your actions then you will be punished too.”

“But I don’t know what I did.” John said, tears welling up in his eyes, “and I need to make sure Carl is okay.”

“You are to leave Carl alone.” She said, voice threatening. “He’s better off without you hanging around him. If you apologise for your sins and beg God for forgiveness then, maybe Carl will want to speak to you later, but he won’t want to be friends with you if you’re not good.”

It was at then that John had no response. Carl probably was better off without him. John wasn’t a good person really, and he certainly wasn’t like some of Carl’s other friends who were strong and sporty and probably wouldn’t be scared about the possibility that Carl had been hurt by someone.

They were probably the sort of friends who would have fixed Carl’s problems long ago. He had just wished that Carl could be helped by something that John could do. He didn’t want to stay away from Carl, and even if it made his mother angry, he knew that it was better for him to be around Carl and _try_ to help him, than to avoid his friend and have him possibly be hurt even further.

He didn’t know why he didn’t believe that it wasn’t a bookcase that fell on him. John just had this really strong feeling in his gut, as though it wouldn’t stop churning. As though the certainty of it was making him sick. He didn’t know why his mother didn’t believe him either. It made him scared, and worried. He was so certain that Carl was hurting and in danger, and yet he knew that he could do nothing about it.

If Carl wouldn’t tell him or a teacher, and now his mother wouldn’t help him, then he had exhausted his path ways. He had no idea what it was that he was supposed to do now, but he had to find a way to speak to Carl on his own, without his mother knowing. He had to fix this.

But first he had to lie to his moither. Of all the things that he didn’t want to do, lying was it. His mother hated lies more than anything, and his mother didn’t approve of _lots_ of things. If she hated lying this much, then John couldn’t imagine how mad she would be if she knew that he was lying, especially about something that she had directly instructed him not to do. In John’s mind though, he didn’t have a choice. Not about this.

So, John sat kneeling with his mother by his side watching over him and he said ‘Our Fathers’ well into the night, praying for the strength to do what it was he felt he must.

When John went to school the next day the first thing he wanted to do was to seek out Carl, but strangely, for the second time, Carl was no-where to be found. He had to look everywhere for his friend, only for him to once again arrive late to registration. From what John could see there was no new bruising but, once again, Carl stubbornly refused to turn around and acknowledge him.

John was tempted to do what he and Carl had never needed to do, which was swap notes. He had hoped that if he found Carl, he could encourage him to explain what it was that happened to him, but instead he was sitting here feeling as helpless as ever. He knew that come break time though, that moment would appear and that the two of them could sit together and work out what it was that had happened, why it had happened and why Carl hadn’t wanted to tell people about it. John hadn’t, however, banked on Carl ignoring him.

At the end of the lesson, just before break, Carl started to pack away. This was something that everyone knew really annoyed the teacher, but he did it anyway and, because he was prepared, as soon as the bell went and the class was dismissed Carl was out of the door like a rocket. It was the complete opposite to the previous day where Carl had packed away slowly and deliberately after the lesson, making it easy for John to speak to him alone and for the two of them to spend time together.

It was strange that Carl had left so quickly. Carl had never rushed off without talking to John, even if it was just to say that one of his other friends had invited Carl to sit with them that day and that John could join the group if he liked. It was an offer, which John would always politely and graciously decline, but the offer was always made.

He had never had this happen to him before, that moment where Carl silently disappeared from his sight was spoke as loudly to him as if Carl had slammed a door in his face. It said much more to John than any words ever could.

John was determined though; he wouldn’t give up. Carl was his friend, and Carl had been hurt, no matter what it was that had happened between them, even if Carl was embarrassed and wanted to hide, John couldn’t let him. John had to be there to help Carl through this, even if Carl didn’t think he needed it.

But then John couldn’t find Carl at lunchtime either, or after school.  John couldn’t find him the next day or the day after that. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and suddenly the comfort and certainty of the friendship that he had once shared with Carl was no more. In it’s wake was a strange detachment and eventually an animosity from those whom Carl associated with.

John never knew what had been said to Carl’s other friends in the intervening periods, but it was then abundantly clear that whatever it was that had been said suddenly removed all the security that John used to have from the bullies in school. No longer was he a tolerated presence, but an active target. No longer did he have the immunity he had once needed so badly.

Then finally, one day after months of misery, Carl hurt John.

Carl pushed him hard into the wall one lunch time, making him trip over his own ankles, causing a small but burning sprain as well as a bump to the head which was painfully sore to the touch. He had wanted to believe that it was an accident, that Carl hadn’t seen him properly, or hadn’t noticed what had happened, but even for John’s level of hopeful delusion it was impossible ignore the look of spite and revile on Carl’s face.

That was the end of what they had used to be and the start of every bad thing that they would become.

John had failed to save him, and now after all the time he had been given to try and fix things, he was finally receiving what felt like his punishment from God, because there could have been nothing worse in the entire world than that look on Carl’s face.

But if John hadn’t saved Carl, then neither had God. If God wasn’t listening, then he wouldn’t waste his breath trying to speak. He would not pray again.

Because if He was the kind of God who would do this to Carl, then he really didn’t want to know him.

~*~

John lay in his bed, unable to stop these thoughts from whirling around in his mind. He knew that the sessions with Mike were good for him in a sense and they really were making him, if not feel better, then at least rationalise what it was that had happened to him over the years. The things he had done, the things that had happened to him, the things that he had become.

The problem was that he really didn’t want to think about some parts of the past. That was a lie. He didn’t want to think about _any_ of the past, and he didn’t feel that it was helping him much particularly now, despite the good intentions of those involved. He just felt tired, exhausted by it most of the time, but he was aware that such protests were useless. John wasn’t an expert, and he knew somewhere inside that talking these things through, rationalising them, putting them in perspective, they would help him organise his mind in a way that he had found hard since the accident.

He just wished it didn’t make him think so much.

He tried to think about something else, about whatever had happened today, and whatever it was that would help him think about anything other than Carl, but his mind kept sticking on it. As he pulled himself upright, he remembered anew the feeling of missing his leg. It had been strange to think about, because it had been so long since he had thought of any period of time since before the accident, but he could almost remember what it was like during that time, running around after Carl feeling like the world was a place that they made for just the two of them. He could feel everything that came afterwards as well.

He could almost feel the twist in an ankle he no longer possessed.

If there was a punishment from God for John and all that he was, then surely that was it. Not the accident itself, but the memory of what it was like before, the knowledge of how different things could have been if things had been remained unchanged. That awareness was more painful than anything else that John could have felt. The space where his leg _used_ to be weighted more on his mind than the fact that it was missing at all.

What was good about this place, John supposed, was that he could bring it up with people here and they wouldn’t tell him that he was right. They wouldn’t insist that he _was_ a bad person who was being punished; they would instead think that he was a person who had done some things wrong, but who also had bad things happen to him. It was something he was still trying, unsuccessfully to wrap his head around, but he was starting to get to the point where, even if he didn’t believe it truly, at least he thought that perhaps he deserved to think it, even if just a little.

Knowing that this stream of consciousness wasn’t particularly helpful to him right now if he had no-one to explain it to, John set about thinking of something else entirely.

The strange boy with the even stranger name was still firmly situated in John’s mind, for him there was no question that, despite the certainty that Sherlock was probably every bit as messed up in the head as John was, he was a character that was worth thinking about.

He was person whom John would probably get on very well with given the chance. John hadn’t had anyone he felt like he could actually be friends with for a long time. For much of his life the expectation was that he was too sick or too sinful to be around others. By ensuring that John isolated himself from Carl, or that Carl isolated himself from John – at this point in time John though the distinction particularly unhelpful – his mother had left John with very few people he could even feel he was allowed to speak to, let alone anyone that john would ever go so far as to call friend.

Even John’s sister, whom he could have had a very close friendship with, seemed like a particularly antagonistic stranger most of the time. The only thing that tied them together was the shared family that they had, and now John was fairly sure, their familial bond wasn’t even as close as John had thought it to be as a child, he felt even more detached from her. He was fairly sure that Harry knew this as well, as she always seemed to see herself as superior to him, and in later years showed it unreservedly.

Sherlock also seemed superior to John, but it wasn’t anything that Sherlock said that made him think that. Rather it came from the understanding that Sherlock was blindingly clever, and held himself in a way that called him to be recognised as such.

That overwhelming wit couldn’t exactly go unnoticed. He doubted that anyone could come across Sherlock and think him genuinely stupid. Bereft of certain types of social intelligence perhaps, but anything other than a genius? John doubted that Sherlock had ever been seen as anything other than extraordinary in his whole life.

And the boy had been right, no matter how attractive John had thought Sherlock was at first sight, he was not attracted to him, not in an amorous sense anyway. John had too much baggage to deal with. Even the thoughts of a small crush he had when he was a pre-teen had pushed him into a sense of internalised hopelessness and sense of loss, and he had spent years getting over that as best he could.

There was little in him that was willing to completely open himself up like that again, not yet anyway. He was damaged goods at this point, everyone here was. It didn’t matter that he _might_ be able to be fixed in time, that time wasn’t now. Sherlock hadn’t even come and to find him after dinner, John was fairly certain that Sherlock hadn’t even thought about him since their meeting. He had seemed like he had some form of ADHD type tendency. The trail of thoughts in his head was beyond John’s understanding, and he suspected that it took some great leaps of cognitive processing to work out where that mind had gone.

That didn’t stop John being hopeful when in the evening, just before lights out, there was a sharp and efficient knock at his door. He half tightened the straps on his leg from where he had loosened them in order to lie down more comfortably and softly hobbled over to the door. His hope hadn’t been in vain, because what had greeted him was the tall slightly emaciated figure that he had just been thinking about.

Thinking of Sherlock was more efficient than praying to God it seemed.

“Good evening, John.” Sherlock said, sweeping into his room with barely a glance in his direction. “Quickly, you need to tighten the straps on your leg if we are to move efficiently through this establishment without alerting the night staff.”

“Wait,” John said concerned, though he found himself sitting down to put his leg on properly. Noting that Sherlock watched the process with some level of unconcealed fascination. “Where are you wanting to go? Isn’t it lights out?”

“There’s a case, John!” Sherlock exclaimed, “These things do not wait ‘til morning, do hurry it along, we can’t waste any time.”

“A case? What the fuck are you talking about?” John said, then regretted it, such language was the sort of thing that he had always been told to feel guilty about. It had taken him a while to even start thinking such words. Whilst it had been his own sort of rebellion, something that he was actually fairly proud of, he still was aware that there _was_ more behind being careful about the use of language than just pleasing his mother, so he always relented when he used it in front of other people. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“What did I tell you before, John” Sherlock asked quite unperturbed, “There is no need to waste time with pointless apologies, especially not now! We are far too busy right now to bother with such ideas.”

John didn’t know what to do with that information, so instead continued to work nimble fingers over the straps until he was satisfied that he wouldn’t be hindered by them.

“Come on, John. No time to lose.” Sherlock then said, striding out towards the door giving John barely a moment to catch up.

“So, what do you mean by a case?” John asked, looking up at his companion, trying to keep up with his rangy strides.

Sherlock held up a phone in reply. It was an expensive model, the kind his mother would never have been able to afford, even if she had thought that John should have been allowed such a thing. It took him a second to actually notice what was on the screen.

“Wait,” he said, pulling Sherlock’s hand closer to him by the wrist, “Are they official police records?” John really wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was real, it seemed like something from a detective drama. The files that were on the phone were definitely forensic photographs. They had weird time stamps and codes on them that suggested to John that Sherlock hadn’t gotten hold of some peculiar snuff photography.

“Obviously,” Sherlock drawled, pulling the phone back towards him and flicking through the photographs. “Middle aged professional, seemingly suicide, but there is evidence that her death was in the exact same manner as three previous suicides. All the apparent victims seem to have nothing in common, nor had they appeared to have ever met each other. The police are being hopelessly inefficient as usual, I aim to do what they cannot do, which is solve the crime.”

“How did you get a hold of these records?” John marvelled, feeling more than a little concerned and impressed.

“Boring,” Sherlock said in reply, that single word instilled in John a sense of panic. He was so close to having something like a friend, and he already could tell that the one thing that Sherlock could not abide was being boring. Being something boring was a recipe for disaster in this scenario.

Sherlock glanced at John from the corner of his eye, seemingly evaluating the reasons behind John’s silence before offering the phone back to him.

“What do you see?”

“Er,” John stuttered, having not expected the question to come, “She’s dead?”

“Stunning observation, John, but I was hoping for a little bit more than that.” Sherlock commented, though not cruelly.

“She was asphyxiated,” John posed instead, “Maybe she was an alcoholic?”

Sherlock’s face broke into a strange grin that John could only quantify as ‘impressed’, “How did you see that?”

“The face has the sort of burst blood vessel pattern that comes with choking, probably on her own vomit from the look of the photos.” John explained, tapping his fingers under the red patches around her eyes, “Was it drugs or something?” He asked, then almost ate his words. It probably was best not to mention drugs around this boy if he was struggling with addiction. John hadn’t even thought about it.

“Poison,” Sherlock said, “Completely irrelevant for now, but admirable observational skills nevertheless. Any particular reason that you have such medical knowledge?” He asked, though John suspected that Sherlock probably could have worked it out.

“Individual science project.” John stated. It was enough of the truth for now. The rest didn’t really matter all that much. He kind of felt embarrassed by it most of the time.

The look Sherlock gave him told John that he knew far more, but he wasn’t going to push it, yet. “She’s an unfaithful woman, clever enough to cover her tracks multiple times, she had come down from Cardiff to spend the night in London, but never made it to her rendezvous with her current lover. Somewhere between arriving and her murder her suitcase was stolen, and she has left a clue in the form of a name, ‘Rachel'. That’s where the trail runs cold from the body I’m afraid.”

“Are there notes then?” John said, craning to see what Sherlock was now looking at.

“No,” Sherlock said, looking mildly bemused, “It’s obvious from the splash patterns.”

As Sherlock explained the whole process to John it actually made a lot of sense, something that was so undeniably plausible, but that John knew he would have never noticed on his own. No wonder Sherlock got bored; if this was the sort of thing he could see on a day to day basis, then every other little problem that other people spent so much time thinking about would have seemed like child’s play for Sherlock.

“How do you know the case was stolen? Maybe she just left it behind.”

Sherlock’s face screamed _don’t be ridiculous,_ “She’s so obsessed with her appearance that she’s coordinated her lipstick and her shoes, she wouldn’t have been caught dead…”

The sudden freeze that Sherlock went through was slightly terrifying for John who worried that Sherlock might be having some kind of non-fitting seizure. “Perfect!” Sherlock exclaimed, “Simply stunning, John.”

“What is?”

“Everything is pink, John. It’s almost certain that her suitcase was pink as well. If her suitcase was pink it would have made whoever disposed of it overwhelmingly obvious, and in order for her killer to have taken it from her, he must have done so accidentally. Realistically he could have only done that if he was in a car and he would have felt impelled get rid of it. Wonderful! It’ll take no time at all to find where the case was hidden.”

Sherlock then all but ran to the front door, leaving John trailing in his wake. “Sherlock.” He said softly, trying to get the boy’s attention, “Sherlock?”

He was not listening. He had gotten an idea in his head and would follow it through. “Sherlock!” He shouted, finally snapping the other boy out of his reverie.

“What?” he bit out.

“You can’t leave.” John said, “We’re locked in here. We’ve got to stay.”

“But the case, John.” Sherlock implored desperately, the air tinted with anxiety “I’ve got to solve the case.”

“You _can’t_.” John had to insist.

The change in atmosphere was explosive. Sherlock threw the side table near them across the hall, throwing papers everywhere “I _need_ this case!” he bellowed, kicking the table so it slammed into the wall, before he collapsed into a hunched up ball on the floor, rocking back and forth “I’ve got to.”

John didn’t know what to do. John couldn’t get Sherlock out of here anymore than Sherlock could get John out of here. He knelt down near Sherlock’s trembling form, moving his useless leg underneath him. “ _Please,”_ Sherlock begged, starting to sob softly into his hands, “Please let me. I can’t… I’ve got to…”

John could do nothing but place a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to offer comfort as the other boy stuttered through half formed thoughts and requests. “I’m sorry,” John whispered, “I’m so, so sorry.”

John didn’t know how long they stayed like that, the two of them sharing a small curled up space in the near dark, but eventually Sherlock’s panic attack subsided. He stretched his legs out and lent back against the wall, exhausted mentally and physically. He was refusing to make eye contact with John for the moment, but he understood, if John had done something similar, he wouldn’t want to look at anyone either.

“I hope I didn’t scare you, John.” Sherlock said, the closest thing to an apology he suspected that he would ever hear come out of the other boy’s mouth. It seemed, to John at least, like the only time where Sherlock really _didn’t_ have to apologise. Their demons were all here in full force, and it was tiring fighting them all the time, that was why they were here. It was okay to lose sometimes.

“You don’t need to worry, Sherlock.” John said, patting his shoulder before stumbling to stand up.

Sherlock smiled, regretful and melancholy, “I didn’t mean for you to see that. Thank you for staying. In the future I shall try and avoid such unnecessary hysterics, if you ever wish to spend time with me again.”

“I’d always stay Sherlock.” John insisted, though he didn’t understand why he felt the need to help and protect this boy, “As long as you need me to.”

Sherlock didn’t reply to that, but it was clear that he was appreciative of the offer at least. He eventually stood up as well, carefully moving the table and papers back to where they had been originally, making sure that there was no evidence of his disturbance.

“Frankly I’m surprised that we’re not surrounded by night staff, “ John commented, “I would have thought they’d come running at any sound of disturbance.”

“It’s actually fairly isolated around this spot,” Sherlock noted, “That’s why I tend to come and think here. They’re probably looking after the other night owls at the moment anyway.”

“Thought that the staff were supposed to make sure we tried and get a good nights sleep every night.” 

“They do, “ Sherlock shrugged “But they’re aware that many forms of psychosis present with insomnia. Come on,” he offered, “We can read the newspapers for any interesting disturbances.”

So the two of them went to Sherlock’s room interrupted by no-one, sitting in the strangely comfortable and antiquated mess with the deep red splashes of colour matching the Victoriana wall paper perfectly. The looked through newspapers and cold cases and acted out possible crime scenarios until the small hours of the morning.

Eventually John crept back to his room, feeling both exhausted and strangely invigorated, pausing on his way to gently nod his head in recognition at a sleepless Jim, who smiled crookedly back.

~*~

John had been here less than a week, and already that squishy chair in the office had begun to feel like a comforting portion of home. He liked the way it felt to be sitting there, and he really wanted, for the first time, to explain what he had been feeling about the situation with Carl from his own point of view. He felt as though, if nothing else, he had to work through his thoughts for other peoples’ sakes, even if not his own.

“What do you think about that then, John?” Mike prompted, “Did you ever find out what really happened that day, or was it never spoken of?”

John shrugged, feeling a little unsure, though not particularly put upon by the question. “It doesn’t take a genius to realise that he was being battered about by his dad.” John admitted, “but by the time I was old enough to really understand that, I kind of didn’t care about him anymore. I was just so angry about how he had treated me, how I had been unable to help him. I kind of felt a bit inhuman when I didn’t care, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I feel terrible that I didn’t feel terrible, if that makes sense.”

“John,” Mike said gently, “It makes perfect sense, but you must know that you were just a child yourself. Despite everything you’ve gone through, you still are. It’s not hard to understand that you were scared and unsure. It’s a terrifying situation for an adult to deal with, let alone someone as young as you were.”

“I know.” John said, though he didn’t feel like he really understood it fully, so he amended himself “I do _kind of_ know. I just feel like I should try and put it behind me, forgive him for it because he was just as hurt as I was, but then another part of me thinks that what right to I have to forgive anyone after what I almost did. Then _another_ part of me starts thinking why should I forgive him after everything he did to me. Then I just spend the rest of my time chasing the argument round around in circles through my head like a dog.”

“It’s complicated, John. Any thought worth having, any emotion worth feeling, is complicated. Never think that any emotion you have isn’t valid, don’t think that you shouldn’t feel it. These things are real, and important, _because_ you feel them John. It doesn’t matter why you feel them. Do you understand?”

“No.” John said honestly, with a strange half laugh, “but I kind of think I might do eventually.”

“Then that’s enough for today.” Mike conceded, softly.

“Is it the end of our session then?” John asked, turning around to look at the clock, something he was encouraged not to keep his eye on during therapy.

“Almost, John.” Mike confirmed, “Is there anything that you would like to ask?”

“No, I’m good for now.”

“Okay,” Mike then opened his bag shuffling around for papers, pulling out a small manila folder. “Now, John. If you don’t mind I just want to quickly ask you about school.”

“What about it?” John asked; if they had been done for the day then he wasn’t sure why Mike still wanted to talk. Any discussion about school would bring up a lot of different things that John had spent a long time trying to forget.

“You’re seventeen, John.” Mike reminded him, “legally you should still be in school, but your education seems as though it’s been sporadic since your accident. Did you ever start your A-levels?”

John shook his head. He had thought about it before, but he had kind of left it behind after the accident. It hadn’t seemed like a priority at the time, not for his mother at least.

“Any other courses or training?” Mike once again questioned, “Your GCSEs were good enough to do any A-level you wanted.”

There was little that John wanted to say in reply to that. He hadn’t ever really considered exactly what he wanted to do for his A-levels. It had always been this sort of ‘in the future’ thing, right up until the time it wasn’t in his future anymore. His life had always been dictated by what his mother wanted. Any ambitions that he might have had sort of fell under the same category.

“What did you want to be?” Mike suggested, “When you were a kid, did you have any dreams or ambitions. Anything you really enjoyed?”

John shook his head almost reflexively and then paused, thinking back to last night with Sherlock, and the secret science project.

“There was this project I did once,” John started, not wanting to go into too much detail, “it was all of forensics and how people solved crimes, murders specifically, but I always thought that, solving crimes was good and all that, but I would have preferred to have stopped it being murder. I kind of thought fixing people was better than avenging them.” John laughed a little at that, there was some irony there, he thought.

“That’s a really noble ambition, John.” Mike commended, “I don’t need you to make a decision immediately, but we can bring in a tutor for almost any subject. Many of the residents already take classes here. Art, English, Maths we’ve even got one student studying Chemistry under strict supervision. Take a look at the courses that are offered. I would really love for you to be able to keep up with school. It’ll give you tools for when you go back to your normal life.”

John took the papers carefully. He was stuck on Mike’s last statement. He wasn’t sure what it was to have a normal life, he certainly didn’t think that he wanted to go back to the life he had before, but the certainty, the conviction from Mike that he would eventually be able to leave this place; it was empowering and terrifying.

Whatever the opportunity was that he had been handed here. He wasn’t going to mess it up.

~*~

In the free time between his dinner and lights out, John started looking at options for university. He knew that people tended to look at this later, but for the moment he didn’t know what he wanted to do. If he saw a course that really appealed to him, then perhaps he could find which A-levels they preferred him to have.

He kept clicking on courses for forensics, but in a separate tab, one that he was scared to admit to himself was open, there were the courses for medicine. It seemed impossible, especially now, and he didn’t want to waste his chance on something that was impossible, but he couldn’t bring himself to close it. He couldn’t bring himself to dismiss it as a foolish notion.

“Hello,” a voice came from behind him, breaking his musing. It had a strange Irish lilt to it, soft as though it had faded over time. John turned to face the person who had interrupted him and found himself face to face with Jim. “You’re John, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” John confirmed, smiling at the shy boy, “And you’re, Jim correct?”

Jim hummed his agreement, “Look, John.” He started, “I noticed that you were hanging around with Sherlock.”

“Is that important?” John asked, trying to avoid acting defensively. Jim was enquiring honestly and he deserved an honest answer.

“It’s just…” he trailed off. Then he took a deep breath before he continued, “Do you mind if I tell this like a story? I find it hard to talk about people like they’re real. I always liked bed time stories.” He offered sadly, “They always gave me an excuse to stay up with…”

John didn’t know what to say that would be a comfort. He was almost certain that nothing he could say would be much help in this situation. “You can say it however you want.”

“Once upon a time” Jim began “There was a magician. He could learn all the secrets that the world had to offer with a wave of his hand. People thought he was very clever, but he didn’t know what to do with the secrets. There were so many secrets that he couldn’t keep them hidden inside, so people would find them out. People didn’t like having their secrets stolen and so, knowing he couldn’t hide his magic, he chose not to care what people thought of him and lived a life of solitude.

“But the magician got lonely if he had no new secrets to keep him company, so he would go out and find those who could give him secrets. One day, there was a princess who had never been able to tell the truth. She had been cursed by an evil witch and would have to tell a thousand lies for every bit of truth she told and because of this no-one knew whether to believe her. Her subjects never knew if what she had said was a lie or the truth, so people never believed a word she said. This made her sad, because when she did tell the truth it was important.

“The magician saw this and knew that he had the power to see the secrets within, because secrets were always the truth. He also knew that there were lots of secrets to be found. So he went out of his way to find the princess, and become her royal advisor.

“He could tell her people what was the truth and what was a lie, but then he began to tell all her secrets, even the ones that she didn’t want anyone to hear. He kept speaking and speaking, until every secret she ever had was drained, until she was left with nothing but lies and, fearing that she would bring a great curse on her kingdom if she had no truth left, she took a cup of poison, and decided to leave the world behind.”

Jim sat back, leaning away from the vacuum that the two of them had created through Jim’s story.

“And the princess?” John asked, remembering that this was about a real person.

“A healer found the antidote, and a good witch is putting back the secrets.”

“That’s good I suppose.” John wondered, “You’re quite the storyteller.”

Jim nodded, humbly accepting the compliment, then looking directly in John’s eyes, told him, “Talk to Irene Adler, John. And please, look after yourself.”

“Thank you for that Jim, I really appreciate it.”

“Not a problem.” He demurred, and then left John alone with his thoughts. It was not long though before he was found by the object of his musings.

“Good evening, John.”

“Hello, how are you feeling today, Sherlock?” John asked, not wanting to spend the whole night awake again, but not wanting to dismiss his possible friend out of hand, despite Jim’s warnings.

“Much improved from yesterday as luck would have it,” Sherlock grinned, “Solving cases with you is as good as any drug John.”

And that was what John had become afraid of. He felt like he could be another temporary fix. He would be welcome around Sherlock as long as the high lasted, then he would be left discarded and drained like a needle. Carefully disposed of.

 

And he had to decide quickly how he would stop that happening, because John couldn’t handle being thrown away again, for fear of wanting to raise his own poison chalice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though it is currently averaging a couple of months between chapters, my aim is to reduce this to every few weeks. I can make no guarantees, but I will try! Just know this is far from abandoned.


	5. Celadon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our hero hears lies from a princess and a witch.

John could say that he had gotten used to Carl hating him, beating him up at every opportunity and generally treating him like a second-class citizen, but in reality he would be lying. The problem was, he hadn’t been able to reconcile the two people as one. The kind sweet boy who protected him and gave him thoughtful presents and the boy who tortured him on a daily basis for no reason other than the whims of the day could have been entirely different people for all John truly understood.

Carl treating John badly had opened up the floodgates for every other person to treat John badly as well. Because John knew his mother wouldn’t care, or would say he deserved it, he learned to hide his problems from everyone. That included his teachers, who at this point seemed like the only people who might have possibly been concerned, although at this point he was also fairly certain that there wasn’t anyone left who even noticed what was happening under their own noses.

John had long since assumed that no one would even notice if he was here or not, if he were dead and gone or not. The only thing that held him there was the possibility that there really was a heaven and hell. If it was the case that John… dying, would land him in hell, then he didn’t want to risk it. He got a taste of what hell was every day, and he didn’t think he could put up with it for eternity.

It wasn’t the physical abuse that was the problem, though it was terrible, it was the names, the threats, the feeling of sinking under the waves because there was no one left to stand up and say that people should stop holding his head underwater. The threats were worse than them being acted out. If he had been hit, or hurt, then at least he knew that it would heal at some point; a threat was a time bomb, the thumping of the heart against the ribcage beating out the seconds before the inevitable ‘punishment’ was received.

It wasn’t the physical abuse that was the problem, the words were much worse. The feeling that he would never have a friend, the feeling that he would remain hollow and empty and bruised on the inside for the rest of his life. The problem was being told that he was wrong because he existed, because existing was a drain on the ordinary people around him in his life; those were the painful things, the wounds that there was no salve for.

The worst part was that John had started to believe it. Between church and school and home there was no respite from the feeling that John was the worse kind of burden on everyone that he knew and had ever known. He would never be able to fix the hardship he had caused people because the only way he could fix it was to leave. It was the sort of pain John knew that many people suffered through, so many people felt this way and John didn’t see why some didn’t realise it was just as bad as any physical pain that could be endured.

There was little that could be done to fix it. That was the problem. A cut could be taped up or sewn up, a burn could be cooled or grafted with new skin, even a broken heart could be replaced, but the brain, the brain held these things too deeply, in a way that was so hard to understand, in a way that everyone was aware would be almost impossible to get away from or fix. Yet somehow because it was ‘just in the mind’ people would say ‘get over it’, or ‘just forget it’, as if every word was that easy to deal with. He couldn’t forget it, or get over it; he didn’t have that strength within him.

So John put up with it.

He put up with it in the hope that one day, perhaps, he would be able to find a way to make the hurt disappear. He didn’t have much hope for that day anymore, there wasn’t anyone who would be able to help him, and John was of the opinion that no one should have had to. John wasn’t worth the time and effort of anyone else, let alone the sort of person who could have been much better spending their time helping other people.

There were people out there who were seriously in pain. There were people out there who had their parents die in fires, or who had been kidnapped, or worse. Those were the people who deserved help. John wasn’t the sort of person who needed help enough to have taken it away from someone else.

What had really happened to John? He had been pushed around a bit, he had been called a few names, people had made snide comments about him a few times. He wasn’t in need of the kind of support that other people needed.

So this was why John was baffled when he found himself in the office of the school counsellor discussing strangely lofty subjects like self worth, and the power of words and the importance of honesty. He didn’t know why the counsellor had decided to speak to him now. The thing with Carl had been going on for years at a steady pace, nothing had gotten worse, well not more so than usual, and there weren’t even any impressive new bruises to speak of.

“How are you feeling, John?” the counsellor asked as if this would make John tell all of the secrets that the world had to offer. To be honest with himself, John knew it wasn’t a reluctance to speak that kept him silent; he knew he probably would tell a willing ear anything and everything if he or she was kind to him. He didn’t speak because he simply that he felt he didn’t have anything to say.

Isolation. That was the word that kept coming up in conversation. It was a word he could see someone latching on to. He could see someone deciding that John needed to ‘talk about it’. People had this thing about no one being allowed to be isolated.

He knew what it might have been that caused him to be invited to see the counsellor. It had happened a few days ago, but these sorts of things took time to get around the school enough that the counsellor heard it.

It had been the school trip. The trip was only a little less than a week away from school and it was being paid for by some local council scheme. All John had to do was hand the permission slip to his tutor and be done with it. He had dawdled over it as long as possible until the teacher had started threatening him with detention if he didn’t start handing the paperwork in. Hoping that his mother would decide that such frivolity was sinful, he gave the paper to her, only for her to sign it quickly and hand it back.

“It’s a good opportunity.” She said to him as she crossed the _t_ with a flourish. An opportunity for what she didn’t say. She had for a while now been angling for John and Carl to become friends again, having believed that long enough had passed for whatever it was that went on between them to have passed as well.

This was true, but along with it had disappeared any connection that the two of them had once shared except for one based on malice and pain. He wasn’t going to tell his mother that though, as far as she was concerned Carl was still a good catholic boy who had been privy to a good catholic upbringing.

So regretfully, unable to delay the inevitable a moment longer, John handed in the slip and he tried, as hard as he possibly could, to forget about it. Some part of his mind wanted to believe that if he didn’t think about it, it might not have to happen, but such things were nonsensical. Instead John’s brain slowly mulled over the notion, chewing it over like cud before spitting it back to the front of his mind with alarming regularity, surprising him when he least needed it.

It was the day of the trip and John had packed a bag of the most disposable things he could get away with. If he brought anything precious he knew it would only be a matter of time before it got thrown in a lake, or John found it mysteriously covered in permanent marker pen, so instead John picked out all the things he wouldn’t mind losing. It just seemed like prudent planning at the time.

He could barely recall the actual moment where he had to get on the bus. His form was called forward, Carl and his miserable cronies along with them, and John froze. He couldn’t take another step. He sat there, backpack in hand, waiting for his brain to engage and give his legs the command to move, and it just didn’t happen.

He stood there for what felt like forever, trying to remind himself the reasons why this trip would be fine, even though all the boys in his form would be sharing one large dorm room, but he couldn’t bring any to the front of his mind. Everything about this trip just screamed ‘danger!’ and ‘stop now’. He wanted to plead with his brain ‘please don’t do this to me, I need you to function.’ But his brain had stopped listening to his requests some time ago. All it was doing now was trying to latch on to some idea of what it was to breathe.

He didn’t know what was said to him at the time, or perhaps what he had said in return, if he had even said anything. Whatever happened had been enough for one of the other members of staff to take his bag from him and gently lead him to the library, where he sat in silence until the buses left.

He had been glad of the respite. The other’s leaving on a trip gave him more rest from the problems going on in his life than if he had gone on the trip, despite the slightly useless tasks that were being set for him in school as filler.

It was strange, though there were people still in the school, the difference that it being almost empty made. He actually quite liked the school like this; the library was extremely safe and comfortable. He was away from the harrowed looks of his mother and the slightly pitying looks of his father.

But John’s avoidance of the trip had obviously sounded a few alarms and showed that John was socially maladjusted or whatever phrase it would be that they used to explain his lack of desire to throw himself into a tiger cage of physical and mental abuse for a week straight. John personally thought that it was just good logic to not want to subject oneself to such things, but other people didn’t see it like that for some reason.

“John,” she said softly, “what is it that’s been happening lately? You’ve been isolating yourself from your peers. Has something changed?”

He looked up at her as if to say, ‘what do _you_ think?’ of course things had happened, things happened all the time. Not all of them in school, in fact many of them just outside of the school gates to avoid the gazes of well meaning teachers. Things had happened, and things would continue to happen; it was just a fact of life at this point. John would put up with it until he was old enough to leave home and get out of there. He had just finished the last of his GCSEs, and he only two more years before he was eighteen.

He had two more years to put up with school before he could get out. Before he could escape and find his own path. Before he could apply for a university on the other side of the country and get out of the stupid town he had grown up in. All he needed was one signature from his parents to get them to accept his UCAS application, and then he could leave. He didn’t need to rely on his parents at all. The student loans company would sort everything he needed for tuition and accommodation, and if he needed the extra money for food, well he would work a part time job in a shop or something. Loads of students did it.

He would survive. He had it all planned out in his head. He was counting down the days to each event that would allow him to leave, to escape and be free of this place and the memories that lived here.

“At your age, John, you need to be interacting with your peers. This isolation has been shown to be detrimental to the mental health of people your age.” the councillor continued, what she had garnered from John’s silence, he wasn’t sure, but he was feeling rebellious, whilst he wanted to spout off a whole diatribe about how statistics are meaningless to the individual – though he didn’t have the words together enough in his head to do so – he was quite happy to refuse to speak to her. It was the greatest act of rebellion he had exhibited in a long time. He had been quite content for so long to sit and agree with everything that was said to him; yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir. Today he would not speak.

In retrospect that probably wasn’t all that helpful. Afterwards he had needed someone to talk to, but he had found himself unable to go back to her. She probably had been genuinely trying to help, anyone who actively wanted to work in a school must have had a modicum of charitability and kindness about them, but John didn’t feel like pandering to her just because she meant well. He had wanted to know what it was to not do something even though it was asked of you.

“Please, do think about it John.” She requested. “It will be important for you when you come back after the summer.”

It took a lot of effort for John to make himself _not_ nod in agreement as he left the office. He was trying to be rebellious through his silence, but he wasn’t ever very good at it.

He had taken advantage of the knowledge that the trip wouldn’t be coming back ‘til that evening, and went down to the river after school. Whilst it had been John and Carl’s river at one point, now it belonged solely to Carl. He hadn’t much appreciated John’s presence at it; throwing stones at him and chasing after John on their bikes to run him over when he tried to run away.

Since then the river had been avoided, but tonight, with the memory of rebelling, he did something different because it was possible. In that impossibly free moment everything was wonderful.

John didn’t go upstream to the shallower parts where John and Carl had once made their den. The wounds stung a little too deep to appreciate the natural beauty of that place anymore, so instead he went to the other side of town, further down the river where it had picked up many other streams and widened out considerably. It was nice, to watch the dying sunlight play across the surface of the water like fire. It was a pleasant end to a pleasant day.

But just as the last glows of orange disappeared over the horizon, everything changed.

“Look, who it is.” A shrill, ratty voice came from behind him. One of Carl’s friends, he knew, although he never had cared to find out his name. “It’s little, Johnny-kins.”

There was a scoff that was probably Carl’s, John still hadn’t dared to turn around and look. Thinking, hoping futilely, that if he ignored them they would go away. They didn’t liked being ignored, they wanted a rise out of him, and if he didn’t give it, then they would push until they got it.

This however had been John’s perfect day. It was the day away from everything and everyone that had made him feel worthless or despised. He didn’t want for them to ruin it, and so he stayed silent.

“I’m talking to you, fuck-face.” The shrill voice came again.

John tightened his hands on the railing, knuckles turning white as he tried to focus instead on the dark swirling water underneath. He tried to find patterns in it, like clouds, but he couldn’t concentrate long enough to fix any image in his mind.

“Look how shy,” Another voice came, that was definitely Carl that time. “Did you miss us? It’s a shame you couldn’t come on the trip. What was wrong John-John?” He mocked.

“Tell us, Johnny-Boy.” The shrill one asked again, “What happened?”

They knew full well that John wouldn’t be able to answer. Any response he gave would simply be another titbit that they would pull out to feed his continued abuse.

“Just, fuck off will you?” John said, then instantly regretted it. He could see the words floating in front of his face, but couldn’t take them back.

“What did you say, you little wanktard?” Carl said, clutching at John’s upper arm.

The ratty one egged Carl on, “I think he told us to fuck off. That wasn’t very nice was it?”

“No,” Carl agreed, tightening his grip, “No, it wasn’t.

John turned as best as he could, flailing wildly hoping to loosen Carl’s grip enough to make a run for it. It didn’t work, and instead John found himself on the business end of two pairs of fists.

It felt like forever before they paused. John had vainly thought that they had stopped their beating out of boredom and would leave him alone, but then he found himself being bodily picked up and thrown over the railing into the water below.

~*~

“The problem with that area,” John explained to Mike as they talked thought John’s latest nightmare, one of many that had been recurring during the past few weeks since John arrived. “is that it reaches a point where the river narrows. The river hasn’t split up: it’s just kind of flipped. It instead gets deeper and narrower and really, really fast. The edges of the river are really sharp and jagged there. Even big rocks get smashed about and pulled downstream. I’d always heard stories of people dying there when I was a kid, because they thought it was shallower than it really is.

“I guess the didn’t mean for it to be as bad as it was, I doubt they were thinking at all. There’s a little while before the stream gets to the narrow part, and they probably thought I would be washed to shore before I got there.

“Everything just, changed from that point. I don’t really remember much aside from my arms being too injured to swim properly, or having turned round the wrong way or something. I hit my head hard enough to be knocked out, and that was that.

“When I woke up in hospital they explained that I’d gotten drawn into a bad area, thrown about and dragged against the rocks by the undercurrents and my leg had been irreparably shattered, probably due to being caught against the wall and having something heavy slam into it like taking a mallet to my shinbone.

“They said that they had tried to save it, but they didn’t have much time once I’d been stabilised. I’d drowned, had a minor brain haemorrhage, broken several ribs, I’d been lucky not to puncture a lung; the leg had been a low priority. To have even attempted to have fixed it would have taken many hours of extensive surgery that my body probably wouldn’t have handled given the circumstances, they had to made a decision before I got a blood clot and necrosis set in.

“I’d actually been kept in a medically induced coma for a few days to allow my body time to recover and to get over the worst of the initial pain, but a coma doesn’t prepare you for the emotional stuff. The knowledge that your life will never be the same.”

“Do you think their actions were accident?” Mike asked, quite reasonably really, but John didn’t like thinking about it.

“No,” he said eventually, “No, I really don’t. It wasn’t possible for them to have thrown me over the edge by accident. No matter what their intention, this _was_ their fault. A part of me is _so_ certain about it. Some days I think that Carl needed to be punished, properly, by the law.” John didn’t want to dwell on that too long, it hit too close to the _incident_.

“Did you ever try to explain what happened?” Mike asked him.

John nodded, then shrugged. “No-one ever believed me, though. There was no evidence; the one other witness claimed that Carl had been trying to save me after I’d lost balance sitting on the railing. I had so many bruises from accident that it would have been almost impossible to tell the beating I’d received from Carl and the surface damage from the accident apart. Everyone suggested that the brain damage had made me forget what had really happened, but the memory isn’t faded or fuzzy, it’s about the clearest memory I’ve got from those few months.”

“Do you still want him to admit his guilt, face the law perhaps?”

“Not really. Even at the time I don’t know why I never made more of a fuss about it. I guess some part of me remembered him getting beaten up by his own parents for nothing more than caring about me. I just thought that abuse like that would fuck anyone up in the head. No matter what happened to me, the things that happened to him were bad too.”

“What did that make you feel like?” Mike asked.

John shook his head, ‘ _not today’_ his mind said. He knew what Mike was angling at, but he wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. He was sticking with facts for now; it was easier than trying to get too many emotions involved.

“What about the hospital, did you receive much help there?”

Despite the circumstance, John remembered the staff at the hospital with a lingering fondness, they knew the sorts of things that helped, the sorts of things that didn’t help, and more than that they accepted the fact that sometimes there was no help that could truly be given.

“I don’t know how much I truly appreciated them at the time.” John admitted, “Considering what had happened I didn’t really appreciate much at all, but in retrospect they really did help me. The advice helped me put up with people afterwards.”

“Put up with people?” John was starting to recognise a pattern with Mike, though it was a comfortable one, where he wouldn’t respond, but ask questions echoing the sentiments in John’s previous statement, to get him to expand, or to get him to just keep talking, John didn’t really know. It seemed to work, though.

“You know,” John said with a vague waving gesture, “the well meaning people. The ones who ask you how you are, because they feel they should. The kind of person that said I was lucky that I hadn’t done more damage to my head considering the damage done to my legs. Lucky, as if not having one of my legs anymore and living with patches in my memory, which made people treat me like an infant, was a good thing. I suppose for my mother it was; she knew how to deal with me when I was little, she encouraged their patronising. She could ignore everything else if they were trying to console me for the accident.”

“What do you think your mother thought of the accident?”

But John couldn’t answer that either, giving an indecisive shrug in return. The session became stilted. Of all the things he felt he was ready to talk about this was low on the list.

“Would you like to see your family regularly?” Mike asked instead “We sort arrangements for some patients to see family members weekly, or even daily. Though for some we advise against it for a time, others we actively encourage. For you at the moment it depends entirely on how you feel about the matter."

John thought about this for a moment, before asking his own question in return.

“Will she know? If I decide I only want to see her on visitor’s day, does she have to know about it? That I’ve chosen not to see her more?”

“Of course not John,” Mike insisted, “Whatever we decide here is for your own benefit. If for now you don’t wish to see her regularly, then there’s no obligation to do so. Nor do I have to inform her of such decisions.”

“Then, I’d prefer not to see her.” John felt like the worst person in the world for admitting it, but it was overwhelmingly true. “Not at the moment. Sometimes, the things she says, I need to not think about it, work out my own head first.”

“That’s a very mature attitude John, and a very tough decision to make. Don’t ever let people make you feel that you’ve made that decision lightly. It’s very difficult to be able to tell someone when their continued presence is not good for your continued recovery, no matter their relationship with you. If you feel you need time before you can sustain a regular relationship with your family, then we can facilitate that. We will also encourage you to find a pathway to speaking to them again; your family are going to need to be there to support you in your continued recovery after you leave here. It can take years for a person to feel they have fully recovered from traumatic events.”

“Okay,” John said, voice small, “Thank you.”

“Do you want me to cancel your mother’s visit during visitor’s day?” Mike asked, but John knew that this was only a couple of days away, and would be remarkably inconvenient.

John shook his head “No. It’s only once a month, and I don’t want her to think I’ve cut her out of my life or anything. It’s just I don’t think I can see her _too_ much, you know?”

“Of course, John. Do you want me there? I can’t always join you, but for your first visit, I can definitely stay if needs be.”

“I’d like that, thank you.” John felt as if he was already taking too much of Mike’s generosity.

“No problem.” Mike told him, waving away his concerns. “Now, did you manage to get your choices for the A-Level courses completed?”

John reached to the side to clutch at the piece of paper that he had brought in with him. He turned it over to Mike without a word.

“Biology, Chemistry, Mathematics, Further Mathematics.” He read aloud. “A good combination to get a tutor for, quite demanding though. Are you sure you want to take four?”

“Yeah,” John said, sounding a little uncertain though he didn’t feel it. “I was looking at a few courses, you know, for after, and these are the sorts of subjects they liked, so I thought I might as well.”

“Just know that there’s no shame in dropping one if you feel like you’re struggling, okay?” Mike looked down at the paper again, “The one complication might be the biology with the chemistry; the required practical aspect means we have to get people in with the portable lab. We already have one person doing the chemistry practicals once a week. If he agrees, would you mind sharing a class with him?”

“No,” John insisted, “That’s absolutely fine.”

He had a feeling he already knew who his fellow chemist was.

~*~

John had been getting on with Sherlock immensely well over the past few weeks, they had struck up a strong friendship the likes of which John hadn’t had in a long while. Whilst he was still wary around his few friend – something he felt he wouldn’t get over for a long while – there was something novel and exciting about the late night newspaper detective work.

It would take some persuasion on Sherlock’s part to an unknown patron, then he could get his hands on the necessary files. If he had the files he could often solve the case. Whenever he struggled to get his head around problems without further evidence, he had the contact of a man whom he could direct to collect it for him and send him further photographs.

Despite the limitations of being a long term resident, Sherlock’s mind seemed ten times faster than anyone John had ever met. Sherlock had not broken down into full on hysterics in John’s presence again, but he had indulged in a few of what John liked to call, ‘hissy fits’. It was the pouting mostly; John almost found it humorous, except for when he found it terrifying.

He felt as though there was a chance that Sherlock’s friendship wasn’t particularly good for him, but then again, most of the time he knew that this wasn’t the case. Sherlock’s friendship was lending him some strange sense of camaraderie. It didn’t matter that he was an inpatient at a mental institution; John was a friend, someone to talk to, and they were all in this together. It was relatively pleasant here and Sherlock’s presence allowed John to think about something new, a luxury he hadn’t been afforded for quite a while.

The one thing that weighed on his mind was Jim’s fairy-tale warning; the problem being that it was difficult to find Irene in order to talk to her about what had happened. He needed to get her version of events, but then he wondered whether he could trust her version of events if she was still the compulsive liar portrayed in Jim’s story.

She probably was, but John would just have to accept that. If she wanted to talk to him, if he was even he was allowed to talk to her at all. He assumed from Jim’s suggestion that she was still here in some capacity, but he didn’t know how. Clearly she was not part of the same therapy group as Sherlock, probably one of those things where it would have been detrimental for the two of them to be placed in the same group.

He happened to eventually come across her in the dining room one day. He hadn’t known it was her at the time, but the figure had been quite a striking one; dark bedraggled hair fell around her face in curls framing haunted eyes and cut glass cheekbones. He hadn’t thought anything of her, except that she made quite a striking picture, and so, sitting next to Molly, he had asked who she was. The initial question had been borne out of curiosity more than anything else.

_She’s Irene Adler._ Molly wrote down, with a little frown. Obviously the two of them hadn’t gotten on very well, either that or Molly couldn’t cope with the lying, John could believe either scenario. John looked over at her, wondering what it was that Sherlock had wanted from her. It was quite abundantly clear that she was an interesting character, someone that people could have easily been drawn to, but John wasn’t sure why. She seemed even less stable than the rest of them.

Molly tapped the table near John, shoving the paper under his nose. _Why do you ask?_

“No reason, I just didn’t recognise her and I was curious. Do you not like her?” John asked.

Molly spent quite a while scribbling down, before handing John the notepad.

_It’s not that I_ don’t _like her. ~~It’s just~~ She’s in the same therapy group as me, the one just for girls, ~~but I don’t know why she’s there.~~ She changes her story every week. It’s hard to tell what really happened to her._

John didn’t have a response to that. It seemed, as Jim had described, the problems she had would stick with her for some time. Everyone had problems, but it was clear that some problems were greater barriers to communication than others. He didn’t know if he should approach her, but he felt like he had to speak to her, to learn more about Sherlock

“Is she scared of strangers?” John asked, wanting to be sensitive to the needs of the others.

_Not so much anymore I don’t think,_ Molly scribbled, _but you’ll want to approach her so that she can see you coming, I don’t think she likes being snuck up on. Just remember she’ll be in the girl’s only therapy for a reason John. She might not want to talk to you._

Molly tapped her shaking finger on the back of John’s hand. It was a gesture that had come to signify Molly’s growing trust of John, but in this case served as a reminder that even amongst friends trust would be hard won for even the most well meaning of individuals.

“Thank you,” John said, but Molly merely shook her head with a small squeak, _‘it’s nothing’_ the sound suggested to John.

“I’m going to see if I can talk to her, I wanted to ask her something. Are you alright on your own for a while?” John felt he needed to ask, even though before John arrived it seemed as though Molly probably spent most of her time alone.

She gave John a thumbs up gesture and John moved to the edge of the hall so he could walk up to Irene head on.

His feet slowed down, quite possibly against John’s own will, as he approached the table of Irene Adler. She was a very foreboding character, she oozed a sense of power, but with it was laced a type of undeniable desperation. All in all it was something that John didn’t know what to make of.

“Hello,” he said softly, standing awkwardly by the table and wondering if it would be okay for him to sit down, or whether he’d be distinctly unwelcome. Striking eyes looked up at him through long lashes. “Are you Irene Adler?” He asked; just to make sure.

“I am,” she spoke, her voice rich and cultivated. John couldn’t help but find himself wondering if it was her real accent.

“Is it alright if I talk to you?”

She shrugged, “You seem to be doing so already.”

John hoped that this was a positive initiation, and gently pulled the chair out to sit in, looking for any sign that he would not be allowed to sit down.

“I was wondering if it was alright to ask you about Sherlock.” John put gently, “You don’t have to or anything, I just…” but he didn’t know how to end that without sounding callous. So he just ended his sentence there instead.

“You can ask me about Sherlock.” She said, her voice was amused, but her face held something akin to mild horror or pain.

“What’s he like?” John decided to ask, forcing himself to abandon the question he really wanted to ask, which was ‘What did he do to you?’

“The great detective.” She said, with a slightly airy quality. “We met in central London, years ago now. He had been hired by the Prince of Bohemia for a case.”

It was difficult for John to listen to this. Every person in here had _some_ outward manifestation of their problems, their anxieties, but John had so far had only witnessed them, he hadn’t caused them. This, he felt certain, was definitely his fault.

“The case involved me. I had been having an affair with the prince, but he was to be married soon. I knew that he would want to drag my name through the dirt if he could to try and restore some of his own honour. So I had to strike first, I counter blackmailed him with some compromising photos, which could have destroyed his politically advantageous commitment.

“That was where Sherlock came in. He had been asked to get the photos back from me. I didn’t want to give them up though; they were the only insurance I had against unnecessary slander. We danced around each other for a while, before Sherlock decided that in this instance I had been the superior mind and, despite his cunning plan, he hadn’t been able to get his hands on the photographs.

“He announced his failure, one of only a handful he ever made in his career, to his employer, with the agreement that he would take no further payment for the case.

“I couldn’t go back to the house to get the duplicate copies of the photographs; it was too risky. However, the photos were only worth something if they were unique, so I hired Sherlock to go and get them. He could work out where they were easily and burn them for me.

“Unfortunately,” Irene finished up somewhat gravely “He managed to destroy the whole house. That’s why I’m here. I have to stay here until I can raise enough funds to start the restoration of the building.”

“Thank you,” John told her, “Good luck.”

The strange thing was, John could see the truths hidden in the story no matter how fanciful it was. He understood some of what she had meant when she talked about the renovations and the funding. It was the same thing that everyone needed here; a space to gather the mental resources and coping strategies required to fix what was left of their own minds; the place where the self resided.

“Just be careful if you’re thinking of hiring Sherlock.” She offered, “He’s not so careful when it comes to keeping things tidy outside of his own head.”

The second warning of the sort he had gotten about Sherlock. So why was John still not paying attention?

~*~

She sat across from him stiffly on visitor’s day. John had stood up to greet her, expecting a hug, even if a rather formal one, or at least a greeting of some sort, but instead she had simply sat down.

“How are you?” he asked his mother after nearly ten minutes of tense silence, hoping for some sort of positive response, or at least some basic small talk.

She didn’t answer, instead looking disdainfully at Mike, who was sitting unobtrusively in the corner of the room. “Does _he_ have to be here?” he asked, contempt dripping from every word.

John’s mouth opened and closed a few times searching for the correct thing to say, but coming up with nothing.

“I’m afraid I do with new residents,” Mike lied for John, “to ensure that he’s interacting in a positive way.”

Mike conveniently didn’t comment on which side of the conversation could have been potentially negative, letting her assume, as she probably would, that he was there to stop John saying anything bad, rather than there to stop _her_ saying anything bad.

“Have you been saying your prayers?” she asked him.

“Yes,” John said, under his mother’s fierce scrutiny, though it was a complete lie. He had actually been enjoying the respite from such rituals, but there was no way that he could tell her that.

“Good,” she told him, though she did not seem convinced, “You will not heal unless you allow the Holy Spirit in. All these impure thoughts that you once had have been stopping you from getting better.”

John didn’t have to see Mike’s face to know what his expression would be like, or at least what he hoped Mike’s face would be like. He suspected it would be one of disbelief and distaste. He doubted that Mike would be particularly shocked, John assumed that there wasn’t much that Mike wouldn’t have seen in his time as a child psychiatrist, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t things he wouldn’t have disproved of.

There were a few more minutes of silence where John was unable to find anything to say before his mother spoke again.

“I need to tell you about a rather unfortunate matter,” she said, sitting up stiffly.

Mike shifted next to them, worried about what it was that might be said.

“Carl killed himself last Friday.” She said. There was no feeling there, no preparation, just facts cold and shocking.

“Mrs Watson,” Mike said suddenly, “I really don’t think.”

“He threw himself in the river apparently. It’s such a shame that he’ll be going to hell now.” She continued, as though she hadn’t heard Mike, voice coloured with something that sounded like it should be sadness,

“He was such a good boy. So forgiving, despite everything that you put him through. You almost put him on a terrible path,” she continued “You had put terribly sinful ideas in his head. It was just a good thing that he had managed to avoid such temptations. I know you were both so young,” she insisted as though John’s actions needed excusing through age, “but you really should have thought better.”

“I…” John started, but had no idea of what to say. His mind had shut down.

“It’s terrible that all that effort and prayer has gone to waste now, but that’s what happens when people are selfish I suppose.”

“I’m afraid that’s time, Mrs Watson.” Mike interjected swiftly, though she clearly had not finished her rant. “John needs to return to his room now.”

She looked at her watch with some confusion, “I thought visiting sessions were an hour.”

“Yes,” Mike agreed, “but later on, when John can be left unsupervised. For now, as my time is unfortunately limited, so is John’s session. My apologies that this wasn’t made clear to you earlier.”

It was clear that she felt she ought to argue her point, and stay longer, but it was equally clear that she only really wanted to be here because propriety dictated she should be, and so was quite grateful for the out that was offered her.

“I suppose if I must,” she said, pretending to be quite put upon. “Is there anything you want sending through the post, John?” she asked, turning to him. “Anything that you left behind?”

“No, thanks mum.” He said, voice tight and pained. “Everything’s fine.”

She gave him a soft sort of half hug, the sort that he should have felt some comfort it, though John was spending too much energy trying to hold himself together to appreciate it.

“Goodbye, John.” She said, picking up her handbag and leaving the office. She offered no encouragement, nor any promise that she would see him again. She had left as ambiguously as possible, and John knew that it was deliberate.

“John,” Mike said, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, though it felt like a haze, the sensations weren’t real “John, can you hear me?”

John turned to the sound of Mike’s voice and though he was thinking, ‘of course I can hear you, why wouldn’t I be able to hear you?’ he couldn’t actually find the words to say it.

“I’m sorry.” John managed eventually, wondering why his voice was so thick, why his words tasted salty. It was like he was watching his own life happen from a strange place of detachment. It was only moments later he realised how much he had been crying. How much he _was_ crying.

“John,” Mike said again gently, “I need you to try to respond to me, can you do that?”

‘Yes,’ John thought, but all that came out was “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

It was all John’s fault, if John hadn’t been bad, if John hadn’t expected so much of Carl, then they would have still been friends, if John had still been friends with Carl then the accident wouldn’t have happened, and he wouldn’t be here and Carl would still be here and be his friend and everything would be fine and it was all his fault.

John hadn’t realised he’d been saying these things aloud until Mike was kneeling by him (how did he even get on the floor?) telling him that he was wrong. That none of this was his fault, that the things that had happened to him were entirely a combination of unfortunate events that he had no control over. _This was not his fault._

“Do you understand, John?” Mike spoke, still soft never giving up. “You’re not to blame here. You are not at fault.”

It was difficult for John to hear, he felt like his head was underwater. He must have said something, eventually, that accepted Mike’s words, for he had sat John back in the chair, and had given him a glass of water. “I think you need some time to process this John,” Mike suggested, “You’ve suffered a great bereavement, and I don’t think you’ll be ready to talk this through yet right now. I think we should talk tomorrow morning. Can you hold on until then?”

Eventually John was taken back to his room, excused the activities for the day and left pondering where it was that everything went so wrong. He had been assured that Mike was only down the hall and that any time of the day or night John should feel free to knock. He knew that Mike was wonderfully well meaning in his offer, but it started to make John feel so selfish. There were so many people here with problems that needed serious help, and Mike was offering to take time away from them to help him mourn a person who by all rights John should have hated.

So why was it that he felt so undone?

Trying to find a way to escape the machinations of his own mind for a while, John decided that he should sleep through it, at least for a little bit. He knew he couldn’t sleep forever, such things were not practical, but it would put off reality for a little while; reality wasn’t sitting well with him.

He didn’t remember exactly what it was he dreamed, only snippets of it, but he found himself being shaken awake by a mildly concerned looking Sherlock, in so much as Sherlock ever really looked concerned.

“Are you alright, John?” Sherlock asked, “You seemed to have been experiencing some form of nightmare.”

“Probably,” John said, acutely aware of the sweat dripping down his own back, “You shouldn’t wake people when they’re having nightmares.”

“You were distressed.” Sherlock pointed out, as though this would have passed John by.

“That’s what nightmares do, Sherlock.” John insisted, “It’s fine, even if it’s not good.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer, before declaring, “No, that’s not it."

“That’s not what, Sherlock?” John was exasperated, and had only just twigged that Sherlock had come into his room without his permission. He wasn’t sure what to do with this half admission of closeness.

“Something is wrong, and I rather think you need Dr Stamford’s assistance.”

It took John a moment to remember that Dr Stamford was Mike’s real title. “Mike told me to take some time to process everything.”

“Process what?” Sherlock asked. John thought Sherlock could probably work it out for himself, but the fact that he had _asked_ showed John that Sherlock understood more of how people’s emotions worked than he let others believe.

So John spoke. He said everything, not caring that Sherlock was wringing every secret out of him the way Jim suggested he had done before. He just kept talking not even knowing what he was saying most of the time, but knowing that Sherlock was listening to it all nevertheless.

When John was done, he was tired, he was crying again, he felt drained and hopeless, but he had gotten it out there. It was almost what John might have called therapeutic, if it weren’t for the intense nature of the situation and the fact that he had only voluntarily shared these things with someone who was actually a trained therapist before now.

Sherlock didn’t seem particularly shocked by any of the revelations, John suspected that he could have told John much of it himself, but he was still there, still listening.

“I shall return in a moment, John.” Sherlock said. This was what had terrified John; the idea that Sherlock would not want to be there anymore, now that the secrets had been told.

“I know I’m not interesting now Sherlock.” John explained, to try and make everything easier, clearer for all concerned to not make believe. “You don’t have to pretend you’re coming back.”

“Oh, John.” Sherlock said in that, ‘of course you’re an idiot, everyone is’ tone, “You’re far more important than a few ‘secrets’. I thought I had made that much clear.”

John shook his head, it probably wasn’t a question that Sherlock thought required answering, but John needed to answer it anyway.

“You’re different, John. You’re interesting for more than just a puzzle to be solved.” And patted him gently on his real leg, before standing up. “Now I shall be back momentarily. I promise you that, you wait here.”

John resisted the urge to ask where it was exactly that he was supposed to go, but in truth he was too busy trying to process the thoughts that were running through his mind in relation to what Sherlock had just told him to waste that much effort on trying to come up with quips.

Sherlock did return much to John’s surprise. Despite the reassurances of his friend, John had mostly assumed that he wouldn’t come back. The fact that he had was a rather strangely pleasant thing all told. Then he would remember that Carl was dead and every notion of happiness turned to a heavy weight of guilt sitting cripplingly in his stomach.

What John did notice through his haze of nightmarish guilt was the violin. He hadn’t known that Sherlock had played, although some part of him thought that he should have noticed. It was only a few moments before Sherlock sat next to him and started playing something soft and sweet that John didn’t recognise. John sat enraptured at the smooth lines and smooth sounds that Sherlock could render from the instrument. Then Sherlock stopped and looked at him with severity.

“This is where you’re supposed to lie back and try to sleep.” He explained, as if to a small child.

“Right,” John acquiesced, feeling awkward, “okay.”

He placed his head on the pillow and listened again and Sherlock began to play once more. John could feel from the gently rocking movements that Sherlock was making, that he didn’t normally play sitting down. He had seen a violinist on television once, he had done this strange rocking back and forth between his feet as he played. He could easily imagine Sherlock doing the same thing in the same way.

Whether he had truly expected it to or not, John did find himself lulled on the edge of sleep by the music Sherlock played. He barely heard the final whispers uttered by Sherlock as he was pulled into a dreamless state.

Barely, but he still heard.

“The problem is, John.” He had said, “It really doesn’t seem like suicide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am quite ill as I write this, and as I wrote much of the chapter. If things do not make sense, I blame them on the fever and I will endeavor to fix them with immediacy!


	6. Lethe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our hero battles fog and darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are mentions of implied violent child abuse in this chapter, please be aware of your triggers. Look after your minds!

John forgot lots of things in the intervening period - the period between the accident and the incident. He could barely remember what it had been like in the hospital. He could barely remember what happened after he was taken back home again, he couldn’t remember lots of things from before that he should have known, like basic sums and dates of famous battles that he had once been interested in, and verses of the bible that he had once been able to quote 

Everything was cloudy, everything was a mess.

He would meet people and forget their names. He would wake up and have forgotten that he didn’t have his leg, and not in the sort of phantom sensation way that was expected, but in a way that, even when he saw the evidence of his own eyes, he dismissed it, leaving him to tumble out of bed onto the floor with alarming regularity. He would wonder sometimes how he could have even forgotten what happened, but often he wasn’t even able to process even that much. He would instead find himself wandering the blank spaces of his own mind with a sort of detached fascination.

The psychiatrist, the nice one with the soothing voice, had spoken to him about it when he had been in the hospital, where he had to reside for quite some time whilst he physically recovered from the injuries.

“It’s not uncommon,” she insisted, “to experience the sorts of symptoms you describe after an event like this.” The explanation sort of hit John’s ear, though it was as if someone else had heard it.

But she continued on anyway, “These experiences are common symptoms of what we call Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. After a physically and mentally taxing event, anxiety, depression and panic are common. And in some cases, such as yours the brain will find ways to cope. Blocking memories is a way for the brain to make space for itself, but in order for you to get better over time, you will need to re-access and address those memories. But John you must understand, your brain took substantial damage in the accident, it will be very important in time to define what symptoms are physical, and which are psychological.”

Psychological, John hadn’t liked that word at the time. It was the sort of word people used to dismiss problems. ‘It’s just psychological,’ people would say. That was when he appreciated the psychiatrist the most; the moments when she had turned around and said “Don’t underestimate the psychological, John. It’s just as important as the physical, and harder to deal with. I promise we’ll help fix it together.”

It had seemed like a simply process at the time, efficient and sensible progression, but unfortunately the psychiatrist was a specialist for emergency care, and once he had been physically fit enough to be dismissed from the hospital, his case had been referred to a long term psychiatrist. He was supposed to be one who would be able to invest time and effort into helping John recover from more than just the physical injuries.

He remembered the day of his first appointment, the psychiatrist, a specialist in younger cases, hadn’t lived very close to John and his family. He had been prepared to take a long journey to get there, he had marked the date on his calendar and he had mapped out the route that he would have to follow to get to the appointment by public transport, and waited.

He kept waiting, and waiting, all day he wondered when his mother would come at take him to the hospital, the time for his appointment drew close, and passed without comment from anyone, and eventually, in fear, he had to ask his mother why they hadn’t left yet, if the appointment had been changed.

“No,” she said, casually as she stood washing her teacups in the kitchen, “The journey is inconvenient for us, so I phoned and explained that we will be finding alternative means of support for you at this time.”

‘Oh’ John had thought, wondering why he had been kept out of that conversation when it would have been sensible to keep him involved. He wished it had been mentioned to him earlier; then he wouldn’t have spent the day preparing and waiting for something that would never come. He was filled with a strange hollowness at the situation. His original psychiatrist had promised that she would be there for the first meeting, as hand over to the new psychiatrist, and to make him feel more comfortable. Now she wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to her. To thank her for all that she had done.

“So,” he said after a moment, hoping that he was hiding his disappointment sufficiently, “Who will I be seeing,”

She smiled, something soft and almost motherly. He wanted to believe that it was because she cared about him, but something made him feel as though she was recalling a different person, or at least a different John every time she thought of him. She hadn’t been able to look him in the face recently, she had taken to glancing away from him as though imagining something, or someone different every time he walked into the room. It was all he could do to avoid being disappointed every time that she didn’t look at him, every time she had to stare off into the distance just to be able to stand the presence of her own son.

“The new priest will be helping you,” she said, “His name is father Sebastian; he’s very qualified.”

John felt cold all over, he hadn’t met father Sebastian yet, he didn’t know anything about the guy, but he knew enough to see that his mother had decided that his problems were only spiritual. That had always been her advice. If something hurt too much or something was wrong, the first step was always to pray about it. God was the person in control of all things; if he had chosen you to suffer, then it was because there was a spiritual problem underneath it all that needed fixing first.

He didn’t dare ask how this man was qualified, but he doubted severely that it would be anything to do with a medical degree of any sort. He would be religiously qualified. He will have gone to the best theology college and done his internship in a well know diocese and ordained by someone undoubtedly impressive whom John should have heard of, but probably would have forgotten. He would then have to hope that his mother forgave him for forgetting such an important person, but John forgot a lot of people these days.

The months wore on after that. John was taken to Father Sebastian week after week, the torturous sessions caused him nothing but grief. He couldn’t bring himself to say that he didn’t want to go anymore after that first time, and the problems he was having, the problems that he had been having and continued to have, didn’t ever go away. He was hardly surprised really, he wasn’t getting any real help, but just because he wasn’t surprised it didn’t mean he wasn’t terrified

His mother may have feared hell, and godlessness, but John feared the blankness more than anything. John feared that moment when he would wake up out of a haze to not realise how he got to that place. He feared that moment when someone said something to him and he had no recollection of their words, even after repeated them. He feared those brief seconds in time where he knew he was forgetting something, something important and being unable to grasp what it was. He feared forgetting the big things, and waking to realise what  he had thought was a terrible nightmare was, in fact, the reality

“Repeat that back to me,” his mother said one evening when she realised that John was blanking again. Whatever it was she said was probably important, or at least an instruction, but he couldn’t grasp it. He had heard the words, but he didn’t actually hear their meaning, he could see the shape of them, but couldn’t get that shape to resolve into anything useful.

John said nothing in return, he knew that there was nothing he could say to convince his mother that he had heard. Even though there had been no distractions and it should have been easy to hear her, or at least understand and process what it was she had said, those words couldn’t have been further away from his mind if she had whispered them from the top of Everest.

She sighed and shook her head sadly in response to the silence “You’re never going to get better if you don’t start accepting God back into your life, John.” She insisted, as though the only problem John had was in his soul, “God has used this to show you that you had been on the wrong path, but to move on, to get back on the straight and narrow you have to accept him into your life.”

“What was the wrong path?” John found himself asking, though he wished he hadn’t.

“You know full well, John.” She bit harshly, “Don’t pretend you don’t know. God doesn’t like liars or sinners.”

Though John had not been lying, he kept his mouth shut and nodded dumbly. His mother clearly didn’t care that his mind had been severely affected by the accident, either that or she didn’t believe it. She just saw it all as a punishment that he could overcome as long as he believed in god and repented whatever sin it was that he had let into his life.

Her words had stuck; god doesn’t like sinners.

But god said that he loved the world, the whole world, sinners included. He had not said that he loved the righteous, or the religious or the good. He had loved the world.

If his mother insisted they all had to emulate that same love, then why was it that she could never love him?

~*~

John’s mind was acting like that again; blurring, being unforgiving in the wake of day, reminding John that something had happened and that he should have remembered more about it, but that he couldn’t bring himself to find the real world.

He sat sort of dumbfounded.

Had he imagined the soothing sounds of quivering strings? He felt he must have, for there was no sign of such a musician now. His friend – he felt still as though perhaps he wasn’t entitled to use that term, but it was the easiest to use in this situation – seemed long gone, the only evidence that seemed to exist was the sticky white dust of resin that vibrated like smoke off the bow and onto the bed and carpet.

John gave a mirthless half smile at that; he was sure that the musician would have been impressed by his deductions, as meagre as they were. They were definitely better than nothing. He just wished that he could remember who the musician (or was it magician?) was.

But then John started to think that he was imagining that person too, there was barely a trace of the powder and it was so fine that it really could have been John’s hopeful imagination. His imagination wanted to be cared for by someone who would visit him at night to play soothing melodies. He was so wrought, but he couldn’t even recall why he was, why he should have been.

There was something there, something that he was not able to grasp at. What was it that happened? Something had to have happened, or he wouldn’t have felt like this, as though violins had to play to him to sooth his soul, and he wouldn’t feel that raw aching in his chest that told him his heart had been ripped clean out of it.

But he couldn’t remember, every time his mind came up against any thought it started to rebel, it started to turn back the other way and live in a haze of concertos and remembered sunlight.

He couldn’t really recall _anything._ His mind was starting to blank out in a way he half-recognised from before. He had experienced this internal clean slate previously. Whilst it was protecting, it was not comforting.

His inability to hold onto any regular thought was bemusing. He wanted to ask himself questions about everything, where was he, the date, his own age, who was this violin player that he was so sure was important, but every time he settled on a thought, a question, it would fall through his fingers before he could answer it. Before he could even _ask_ it.

The one thing his mind kept coming back to was a collection of letters. PTSD. He must have been suffering from it. He couldn’t really recall what the letters stood for, nor what they really meant, but he knew it was a problem, a disease, something he had known before that fit so neatly with the now.

All he wanted to do was rationalise, desperately rationalise everything that was happening to him and around him, if he could manage that then he would be able to start addressing the actual problems he was facing rather than scrabbling to remember what the problems were. It was a terrifying prospect, not being able to trust his own mind and knowing that he could barely trust his own mind to remember even that much.

He eventually thought that getting out of bed was a good idea. He didn’t know where he would go, or what he would do, but he thought that perhaps there would be answers out there somewhere. He just had to find someone who he could ask.

As he swung his legs out of the bed he felt the strange clunk of plastic and metal against the carpeted floor and had a moment of blinding clarity. ‘Right,’ he thought to himself wondering how he could have forgotten, ‘fake leg’. He was starting to wake up, that was what it felt like at least; waking up about of a bad dream, except that the nightmare was the reality.

Sherlock. His mind eventually processed, Sherlock had been playing to him, because he was his friend in an institution for mentally unstable youths. He had been sent here to get better because he had been broken. A little like he was now. A lot like he was now in fact.

But why was it that he felt so messed up? More than usual; he didn’t normally feel this strange mental hollowness. He hadn’t felt this way for a really long time at least, even with the panic attacks that he had felt before.

Mike. That was the person who he really needed to see. Mike was the person who had been trying to fix things. He had been helping John. He had asked John to come and find him.

At least things were starting to click back into place again. If he spent some time with Mike then he the doctor would probably have some suggestions as to what he would be able to do to start making sense of the world.

He made his way, unthinkingly, to the place where he was fairly certain Mike’s room resided. If he wasn’t there, he would go to his office. Everything was a bit hazy still, and he was certain that there was something important that he was forgetting, but for now at least he was happy to work with what he had. Some memory was infinitely better than none.

Mike seemed a little surprised to see him at the door. That was when John noticed that it was five thirty in the morning, the clock hanging on the back wall informing John that he should have thought to check the time before he left his room. He almost wanted to apologise and try to go back to sleep, but Mike seemed happy enough to speak to him in that moment, others surely needed to speak to Mike in the middle of the night too, John definitely wasn’t the only one.

“Come on, John.” Mike said, pulling on a large hoodie against the chill of the corridor, “Let’s go to my office.”

The trek there was silent, neither Mike nor John wanting to wake the other residents accidentally, and once they reached the office Mike informed the night porter of where he was if he was needed before closing the door and inviting John to sit down.

“How are you coping, John?” Mike said, voice thick with a mix of sympathy and sleep.

“I don’t remember.” John said, vaguely feeling the pain in his chest resurface, but unsure of why he was feeling it, “Everything’s blank. What happened yesterday?”

“Is this the first time you’ve forgotten stuff like this?” Mike asked, “Forgotten without any physical injury?”

“Yes,” John said, then considered it carefully, “No. After the accident, for a while they thought it was just the brain damage, but I forgot things that I shouldn’t have forgotten then I would remember them again.”

Mike carefully pulled John into describing what the sensation was like, the feeling of everything being blurred around the edges the feeling still intact but the triggers, the memories themselves no longer accessible.

“John, the sensations your describing are a match for a phenomenon known as dissociative amnesia. Have you heard that phrase before?”

John shook his head, though he wasn’t trusting his own mind right now, he was still fairly certain that the phrase was new.

“It’s a mental coping mechanism. The brain will supress or mask a memory in extreme stress anxiety or trauma. It’s commonly linked with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Have you heard of that?”

John nodded this time, “After the accident.” He explained, “They said it could make me depressed, or panicked at different times and other stuff too.”

“I think you’ll need a physical exam to rule out any other neurological disorder, but I’m fairly certain that this was brought on by the events of yesterday.” Mike explained, “You’re starting to distance yourself from the memory, but you need to be able to process it.”

“Can’t you tell me what happened?” John asked, curious and still scared.

Mike waited for a moment, writing down something intently, before speaking again. “I’m afraid of what telling you might do until we get this PTSD calmed down.” He explained, “I’m going to prescribe you a low dosage of anti-anxiety medication, this should help you get your brain chemistry back under control, and hopefully allow you to access your memories again. If it has no effect within 48 hours, I’ll explain what happened you, but I think it will be better if you can remember for yourself.”

John wasn’t so certain about that, whatever it was that was happening he felt he needed to know, but eventually his brain caught up and rationalised that if he had suppressed it once, it wouldn’t be surprising if he suppressed it again.

Mike stood up and went to the cupboard, signing out a single low dosage diazepam tablet, and handing it to John with a glass of water.

“I’m reluctant to let anyone take this for too long.” Mike explained, “They can be addicting, but in an acute case like this, they are effective. Come to my office after breakfast and after dinner for the next three days.”

John wasn’t sure he would remember the instructions for the next few days, but he hoped that Mike would remind him. Mike was busy, he had so many people to see, but selfishly John couldn’t bring himself to care about others in that moment. His mind wasn’t stable enough to remember that other people were in need of help too.

The drug he had been given kicked in quickly, starting to sooth the fuzziness, though for now the blank spaces where his memory resided still remained.

It gave him, at least, the mental wherewithal to take himself to bed, and sleep.

He didn’t really recall when the memory hit with full force again, this time allowing him to feel a little and to understand the implications of what he had been told, but with that came the notions of what had really happened.

He could barely think, could barely breathe from it.

~*~

A week on, it was interesting to sort of have his mind back. He could process the situation now that the problems of memory and blankness that had formed with the death of Carl had all but vanished. Mike had been correct in his assessment of the situation, and he did have space to process what had happened. The problem had been, what happened was truly terrible, both in the sense of tragic and in the older sense, of something overwhelmingly vast. He was having to try and understand that.

Guilt was what he felt initially, the overwhelming guilt that asked how John survived when of all the people he knew _he_ would be least missed, least cared about. It got worse when he couldn’t stop himself imagining the last moments of that life flickering out. How must it have felt? Did he suffer? Did he feel the same physical pain that John had felt at that time or had he just let himself forget? What had been going through that mind?

John might have had his mind back, but he was sure he was feeling worse for it. At least he knew he was feeling worse, his mind supplied, the blankness of the mind was not a comfort, it had been stressful and distressing. It would do no good to assume that just because he didn’t remember an event that he didn’t suffer from it. Even the empty spaces had been their own form of suffering, so he tried let the memory go in other ways, to try and put it to rest rather than to ignore it. Even if in doing so it was spilling John into depression.

He wasn’t getting very far, but at least he was trying. If he even deserved to try.

Some part of him thought that he deserved to feel this pain, to suffer through it was his own penance for the things that he himself had done. Some part of him knew this was irrational, but that part was small, and quiet, growing quieter every day.

Sherlock on the other hand had been a constant comfort during this time. He had played to him in the night - something that John was glad he hadn’t made up – and he had spent time with John just being Sherlock. He hadn’t tried to treat John like spun glass. Whilst he had appreciated Mike’s approach to him, it was comforting in a way to have someone who saw things in a more cold and calculated way, someone who a saw John’s problems as things that would get better with time as the brain chemistry balanced. When he was with Sherlock he didn’t have to think about them.

It wasn’t _good_ to ignore the issues that surrounded John at the moment, he wasn’t that stupid, but it was nice to have a reprieve from them for a while. It allowed him to step back and let his mind recover before he got back to the draining process of trying to remember what it was to feel positive emotions again.

He had been correct in his assumption that Sherlock was his fellow chemistry student. The portable lab that they used was small, but perfect, it was a brilliant recreation of everything John had loved about science lessons in school, but on wheels. Sherlock had been studying longer than John had, and was already a quarter of the way through the AS material before John had even started, but Sherlock had held off speeding through as fast as he could in order to work with John on the start of the year’s work. Something far more considerate than John ever imagined Sherlock would be.

A lot of what John did in the first group of lessons was learn the basic laboratory skills that he needed in order to complete the practical work for the year; the foundations of stoichiometry and atomic theory, plus all the titrations and flame tests that came with them. Whilst John was catching up with the necessary skills of the lab, Sherlock was completing his individual investigation, the one he needed to submit as a part of his practical examinations, whilst he waited for John.

But the fundamentals of chemistry were not the only things that Sherlock spent his lab time investigating. Initially John had wondered why Sherlock would chose to stagnate and slow down, just to accommodate John, when he had already made it quite clear that he didn’t have the patience to do such a thing. It took a while for John to realise that Sherlock wasn’t really slowing down, he was simply completing two tasks at once. On the one hand he was self-teaching forensic techniques, something that was driving the poor tutor slightly batty, and with the rest of the time he was racing through the chemistry at what was actually a remarkable pace considering that he seemed to actually be doing ten things at the same time.

A month had passed, and through accelerated learning and by dint of really having nothing better to do with his spare time, John had finally caught up with the start of the year’s course, and Sherlock was able to continue back at his original pace.

It was nice, working side by side on the same labs. They could help each other and pass each other solutions and equipment. Sherlock didn’t seem to need help very much, except that he was incredibly lazy and so if John was able to pass him something, rather than having to make the effort of stretching out his own arm, then he was happy to help John in return for the activities that John couldn’t quite complete with his motion problems.

Standing up on tip-toes to fill the burette for example, had been a bit of a struggle for John. His prosthetic ankle didn’t push down in the right way to give him any stability. So Sherlock would help him move all the equipment to the floor or a stool, so that he could carry on working. John knew that the tutor, a pleasant Scot by the name of Dr Bell, though he preferred being called Joseph, would have been happy to help him as well, but there was some camaraderie in asking for help from Sherlock and helping Sherlock in return. He hadn’t experienced it in his school life before. He hadn’t experienced it in his life before, not for a long time at least.

It was in their sessions like this, away from the main building, that they talked almost haphazardly about topics, sometimes it would be a work of fiction, or a chemistry problem, or their families – though both were not very forthcoming about that particular topic - or their dreams, and ambitions - something about which they felt that they didn’t have to be ambiguous, but generally were anyway.  It was hard to be anything but aloof about the future when you didn’t know exactly what it was you wanted to do. Though John felt that ambitions were once more allowed in his life, it was hard to imagine life outside the halls of the institution.

John was sitting, timer in hand, watching for changes in colour. Rates of reaction made so much sense to him, and he loved it. He hadn’t realised things could make this much sense after the accident.  The waiting also left plenty of room to think about other things. Most of his thoughts returned to his mysterious companion. So eager to explain other people but unable to let others know parts of his own life; it left John searching for information about his friend.

“What was the first crime you solved?” John asked, Sherlock glancing at the stopwatch, and not writing anything down. He never forgot anything when he wanted to remember it. John envied him; he wished he could recall anything effectively and with trust

“The curious incident of the dog in the night-time.” Sherlock said, carefully pipetting out the next solution.

“You what?” John asked, still waiting. He didn’t know what it was about the titles that Sherlock gave his own cases. He liked to think that Sherlock turned them into epic novels in the safety of his own head, but John new that Sherlock would leave out all the most important details because he assumed that everyone knew them. Sherlock wouldn’t have the patience to write a novel, he would prefer to spend his time showing off instead. Maybe John could write novels of Sherlock’s exploits one day. John certainly had the patience to spin a novel.

“A dog was found dead in the middle of the night. I was able to deduce who had slaughtered the canine; He didn’t bark because he knew his killer - too trusting. It was the first piece of evidence that showed me how little advantage caring held.”

“A dead dog?” John questioned, curious as to why someone would come to Sherlock with such a case. “How old had you been?”

Sherlock paused for a moment, a clear sign that he was retrieving information from his ‘mind palace’ “I had gotten Redbeard when I was six. He was killed when I was eleven. Mycroft had just left for university and my parents had thought it more stable for my education to leave me with my grandmother and uncle whilst my mother completed her sabbatical. My uncle didn’t approve of the dog.”

“Fucking Christ Sherlock, it was your dog?” John was taken aback by his friend’s indifferent tone,  “ _Your_ uncle killed _your_ dog?”

Sherlock shrugged, as if to say ‘who did you _think_ the dog belonged to?’ “It hardly matters. It was just a simple creature, nothing more.”

“But you were a kid!”

“I had rather been provoking him,” Sherlock explained, as though this justified the act “I had been speaking quite loudly about his penchant for young women, rather younger than the average.”

“How young?” John said, feeling nausious that he even had to ask.

There was no direct response, though Sherlock levelled him with a stare that, again, clearly said, ‘what do _you_ think?’

“Jesus,” John said, feeling even worse, “That makes it even worse. Have you told Mike about it?”

“Of course, I told you already that I’m disinterested in lying, especially if it serves me no advantage. I only keep information to myself if I know it would be detrimental to share it, or else advantageous to keep it a secret.”

“And what did Mike say? He questioned, curiosity blooming.

“Something vital no doubt.” Sherlock dismissed, “I deleted it.”

“Deleted it?” John said, exasperated.

“It wasn’t relevant, whatever it was.”

“Right.” John replied, but didn’t trust himself to say more, Mike was so helpful, so kind and caring, and it was almost a personal affront to John to hear someone treat Mike as though his help and guidance were irrelevant, easy to give and take. Easy to dismiss. But this was Sherlock, he dismissed everyone, and John had to learn how to understand that.

John had to distinguish between the times Sherlock was dismissive because of his past and his nature, and when he truly believed that person to be irrelevant. It was a thin line, and John needed to know the difference between one side and another if he was to remain Sherlock’s friend.

“Caring is not an advantage, John.” Sherlock reminded, insisted, re-diagnosing himself once more. “Caring is always a weakness, a leverage point, and an advantage to another person. It is an advantage I am reluctant to give up again.”

Because of course Sherlock would think that. John had been a fool to forget that this was the same Sherlock who had torn another person apart just because the thought of care hadn’t occurred to him. This was the same Sherlock who only found relief in crimes and drugs. Sherlock was a mental patient. He was disturbed. He didn’t think like a normal person. None of them did.

Of course that person would conclude, from a horrific act of psychological abuse and violence, that the problem was _Sherlock_ caring too much, rather an evil man demonstrating how truly fucked up humanity could be. That was the world Sherlock’s mind inhabited, but he was also aware of his own need to explain his mind to people who didn’t think that way.

“He did worse to me than that to shut me up, John.” Sherlock said, sounding amused, though John couldn’t fathom how Sherlock found it funny. Sherlock pointedly pulled down the back of his collar, revealing a glimpse, just the tip, of a long white ragged scar, clearly very old and just grazing the nape of his neck.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock.” John said, now feeling physically sick. “How can you laugh about that?”

“What would I do if I didn’t make myself laugh?” He questioned, and there, for a trace moment John could see the real emotion inside, damaged and raw.

This moment, just between the two of them, would be the only time Sherlock would let anyone else see it. For everyone else he was still, stoic, uncaring, unfeeling, but John could see a hint here of something more. Whilst Sherlock truly was a calm and logical mind of unfathomable proportions, woven into that was the scaffolding of a coping mechanism. Sherlock had allowed that side of him free reign in place of a cure, laughter in place of what would have been the appropriate reaction; to cry until there was nothing left.

Sherlock had locked feeling away inside of him, and now was left with just the barest glimpse of the emotion that the brilliant child he used to be would have suffered. Those feelings were just further rooms in his mind palace, locked doors behind which reality could hide.

If Sherlock didn’t laugh then he would feel real emotions. If he felt real emotions then his mind would be compromised. If his mind was compromised then everything came flooding back and he would have nothing left.

That, John finally twigged, was what he had witnessed that day when Sherlock remembered that he couldn’t leave the institute to solve his crime. Sherlock had two states, a machine of deduction or a broken child. He had no in between. He hadn’t been taught how to feel being overwhelmed.

The rare emotion he let himself show was either humour or anger, things that were removed from what he had felt truly deep inside himself; despair, pain, grief, sorrow.

Sherlock glanced at John from the corner of his eye. John didn’t know what his friend saw there but he clearly saw enough that he needed to make comment. “Look, John.” He started, almost sounding vulnerable, though John knew that was probably an illusion “I’m not used to telling people these things, just know that they’re in the distant past, and that they don’t deserve to be thought on.”

John didn’t reply, he couldn’t, because it was obvious that they needed to be thought on by someone, but that someone probably wouldn’t be Sherlock. Not any time soon. John wasn’t strong enough to take on someone else’s burden.

They carried on the rest of their experiment in relative silence, Sherlock methodically going through the motions of each trial, having retreated back into his own mind, as he was wont to do. In doing so he left John alone once more.

~*~

After John’s mind had started to restore itself in the wake of Carl’s death, one phrase had come back to him. He couldn’t work out whether that phrase was even real, there was plenty that he knew he couldn’t trust of his own mind for the moment at least. But there was the strange nagging thought, the same sensation that told him something was wrong with Carl’s death.

The only thing that made his mind think that, was Sherlock’s one offhanded and probably unintentional comment. Sherlock liked to ponder, to think and find a puzzle that suited his mental capacities. If there was a death, then Sherlock would have much preferred it to be an interesting one with a solution and a resolution, rather than one based purely on the human emotions with which Sherlock was not well versed.

John’s unconscious had simply latched onto the idea. In dreams it wasn’t a deliberate act on Carl’s part. Something else had happened, because murder was much easier to accept than thinking that the person he had once cared so much for had hated his life, hated existence so much that he couldn’t stand it one second longer. That Carl had to kill himself before life killed him. That hurt. That hurt so much that John thought he wouldn’t be able to take it 

But at the time the only thing that Sherlock knew was what John had told him, and John had only managed, as far as he could remember, to share the barest details. Therefore there was nothing that would lead Sherlock to that strangely horrific conclusion, except that he had gotten there. John had learned to trust Sherlock’s mind and his deductions. In part at least; because he did see things that John didn’t see.

What John hadn’t known was the information that Sherlock had requested about Carl’s apparent suicide, the pictures that he had gotten wired to his phone to investigate remotely and the suspicions that he had not told John about. He didn’t even hear of them until the day he had met Mycroft.

~*~

It was Christmas, or near enough to it that people were having all sorts of family meetings. Sherlock, despite the detached impression that he had given of his family, had been no exception. Sherlock didn’t have many visitors, or people who seemed to care about him, but there was one man who turned up to lay waste to that false assumption.

Sherlock may have assumed that caring was not an advantage, and that the people in his family were sensible enough to share this view, but clearly whoever had made this decision had neglected to inform Mycroft of it, the same Mycroft who, despite Sherlock’s noticeably disdainful attitude towards him, had made the effort to come to the institute, and had brought things for Sherlock in return. More things than just heartache, accusations and bad news, which is all John’s mother had greeted him with in their one meeting.

Sherlock had made it seem as though Mycroft was practically a master criminal, pulling all the strings where strings needed to be pulled. Whilst John was reluctant to assume Sherlock’s brother was truly mafia incarnate, he could certainly understand now how he could seem that way. If he was even the slightest bit as intelligent as his brother, then that combined with the absolute confidence and assurance would render him a force to be reckoned with.

John had been surprised that he was asked to come along to meet Sherlock’s brother. Family time had always seemed like such a private and important thing, but Sherlock had insisted he would be better off with the company.

“My brother’s presence is both a frustration to me and incredibly dull. I would, ideally, like to avoid the boredom as much as possible; you would be a quite convenient distraction.”

John wasn’t sure how he felt, being labelled as a distraction, but in return for his boredom alleviating services he _had_ gotten an explanation of Mycroft in doses. Sherlock painted a picture of a big brother whom he clearly admired, looked up to, adored, and loved deeply. Of course he would never be able to admit it for fear of also admitting that there were people in his life worthy of more than just the begrudging respect or interest that he reserved for a select few people. Sherlock had said none of this, John doubted he’d ever be able to, but he did show it through the way he acted.

Sherlock may have been a master of deduction when it came to crime and motive, but John knew a lot about the human condition, he had experienced much of it, and he thought he could read people pretty well. Then again at times he barely understood what was going on and understood little of anyone, so he suspected that in reality that John was not an expert reader of people. He had convinced himself that knew enough to get by.

Something about the request seemed almost other to Sherlock’s normal nature, and John didn’t know why. It wasn’t surprising to see his friend reluctant to do something. He was reluctant to do anything that didn’t involve triple homicide or a locked room, but there was an undertone that suggested John would be a moral support in this case. There was some unspoken thing underpinning the sibling relationship that Sherlock couldn’t cope with. It wasn’t a surprise considering where he was and where he therefore had probably started off.

When the day of the visit came, Sherlock had all but booked himself into a safe room. This family room was a small lounge complete with sofa and armchairs, comfortable in the same way that much of the institute was comfortable. There was that almost artificial homely feel that made people nostalgic for things they never had. The sort of nostalgia that people here, by dent of being here, suffered from often.

These kinds of meetings were only for family members that had been vetted as safe for the institute and productive towards the resident’s continued healing process. Say what Sherlock would about his brother, he clearly had been beneficial both in getting Sherlock the help he needed, and in continuing to help his brother.

To John at least, Mycroft cut a very imposing figure. He was rangy and tall and held about him an air of authority that screamed ‘I have more power in my big toe than you could even comprehend in your lifetime.’

The image was set in John’s mind from the moment Mycroft walked in with his head held high. In his hand was a large briefcase – or small suitcase depending on how you looked at it – trailing behind, a look of indignation and personal pride seemed to cling to him like smoke, it wasn’t something that he could easily get rid of, it was something that was simply just there, and everyone else had to get used to the sensation around them. Mycroft Holmes was evidently not a man who changed for anyone. Not anymore at least.

“Good afternoon, Sherlock.” Mycroft said in that strange plummy way that matched Sherlock’s own educated drawl perfectly. “I trust you haven’t caused further disturbances whilst recuperating.”

That made John want to laugh, though he could understand from the context that it really wasn’t supposed to be funny. It was the idea of recuperation, like Sherlock was on a spa holiday, but Mycroft did not seem even the slightest bit amused.

“I’ve epitomised the pinnacle of polite society, as always, _Mycroft_.” Sherlock sniped back, taking great pleasure in the distain with which he spoke his brother’s name.

“Quite,” Mycroft said, sitting down with a flourish of movement that, even in its smallness, emphasised the political powerhouse this man represented. He didn’t actually know what Mycroft did, but if he wasn’t either in office or in MI5 then John would be shocked.

“John Watson, I presume.” Mycroft nodded towards him as a form of greeting,

“Er…” John mumbled, hating how stupid he must have seemed in that moment, “Yes, yes I am.”

“I’ve heard so much about you.” Mycroft smiled in a way that put John in mind of a lion that had just eaten a lemon.

“Really?” John asked, “What did Sherlock tell you?” he couldn’t help but enquire. Mycroft’s almost puzzled expression clearly stated that Sherlock hadn’t told him a word, but why on earth would that mean that he hadn’t heard about John? This man was pulling some major strings somewhere, and would definitely invest time in making sure that his brother was spending time with the right sort of residents.

John could only hope that his continued presence here signified that Mycroft’s spies approved of him despite it all. This was right up until the moment where John started to worry that he needed to add acute paranoia to the steadily growing list of mental illnesses that he was suffering from.

Mycroft casually rolled the suitcase towards himself, beside the chair, and unzipped the case delicately.

“Presents,” Mycroft concluded, as though Sherlock’s sharp mind wouldn’t have noticed it without assistance, “I’ve already checked with Dr Stamford; they’re all suitable.”

Sherlock hummed in disinterest as though the idea of such trite traditions bored him, but he sat up straight as he saw the neatly wrapped parcel clearly labelled ‘To Sherlock, from Mycroft’. As he reluctant as he might have been to admit it, it appeared that Mycroft did indeed know Sherlock very well.

Sherlock methodically unwrapped each present, giving a diatribe into how predictable each one was, though seeming extremely pleased when he unwrapped the light microscope and slide set that Mycroft and his mother had put together for him. He had looked at carefully, internally marvelling at the different samples, blood and organs and tissues and insects that had been put together. John didn’t know what Mycroft had said to convince the front of house staff that these things were appropriate - they had to be made of glass at the very least – but clearly it had been enough.

There were some other things, from old colleagues, some guy he went to school with, the gardener, other little gifts and cards from other people, something about ‘the powers case’ from his contact with the police, but there was one large gift that was, rather conspicuously, left in the bottom of the case, that had  beautifully hand written in calligraphy pen, ‘ _Sherlock’_. Even John was not so stupid as to be able to ignore that this one was being left for last, even when there was little reason to do so.

Mycroft put one steady hand over it, but no more, and paused, speaking slowly and carefully so as to make himself completely understood.

“I’ve asked this before, Sherlock and I no doubt will ask it again, but do you truly wish to keep in contact with grand-mère?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Sherlock commented with a lazy shrug, still fiddling with a circuit board that lit up when you completed the puzzle. “She did nothing.”

“That’s exactly the point.” Mycroft insisted, “She did _nothing._ ”

“Neither did you,” Sherlock said, not accusing, simply stating the facts, “Neither did either of our parents. It’s all in the past Mycroft, it’s not of importance.”

There was the hint of emotion in the response that hadn’t shocked John, it was clear that Mycroft cared deeply for his brother, but it was a little of a surprise that he had shown it so readily. Sherlock was so clearly Mycroft’s weak point, his leverage even.

“You must know,” he said, sounding strained, “If I had been there, if I had even had the meanest suspicion of what was going on, I wouldn’t have let you stay in that place for even a second longer. No matter what you think of mummy, she wouldn’t have let you too.”

Sherlock’s reply sounded scathing, as if Mycroft’s words were not rational, and that annoyed Sherlock more than anything, “You were a first year university student; you were hardly capable of looking after a child.”

It was strange hearing these arguments. From any other lips they would have been placating, soothing, forgiving. They were the words that said, ‘it was not your fault’ and ‘I know you would have done something if you could have,’ but from Sherlock they were a strange eye roll of a statement, evidence of a disappointing flaw in logical reasoning. They were exasperated words, spoken before, an argument already previously held several times.

John had barely spoken a word, then again neither had Mycroft or Sherlock, so he didn’t feel guilty for it. They sat there for at least another half an hour, Sherlock carefully looking through the gifts he had received, John noticed, carefully ignoring the letter from his grandmother. Mycroft sat, staring forward, showing a great deal of care for his brother. It was a care that Sherlock would never see, because he would not look up.

He didn’t even look up as his brother left, except to request that he send him more of the powers files when he could. Mycroft pointedly looked between Sherlock and John, and then left just as silently and stoically as he arrived.

It was then, and only then that John finally caught onto the words: The Powers Files.

He didn’t know whether to be grateful or terrified.

~*~

John had known that he would spend Christmas alone. Well, he hadn’t actually been alone, not truly many of the staff had been there, as well as all the residents with whom he had made sort-of friends, but he had spent it without his own family. Christmas at the Watson household had been held sacred, both in the literal and metaphorical sense. There was no escape from the birth of Jesus aspect, but there was also a unity there and the Christmas dinner was still incredibly traditional.

Advent had not been spent in the excitement of the holiday approaching, but in silent religious anticipation. The air was filled with the expectancy of something beautiful to come, and anxious fervent prayer. There came the suspense for the moment where they would remember Jesus’s sacrifice to the world, to become man, to become meek.

It was not a time of noise and revelry, but it was precious.

The actual day of Christmas had been more in line with popular culture, as they would exchange precious gifts, each person giving only one gift to the other, a show of deference to the humble nature of Jesus’s birth. To accept gifts as Jesus did, but to expect nothing but what was offered, to come into this world born in the manger and to be taken out of it on a cross.

Christmas dinner was the one part that was not pious. John’s mother felt there should be enough food for anyone who wished to eat. On Christmas day the doors were open to all, just as Jesus came to give life to all people.

It was strange for John to not see his mother, but there was no way that she would leave the church today, not to see him at least, and John kind of understood that. There were some things that he couldn’t be expected to be put ahead of when it came to his mother, and the church was one of them. Blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, and his mother stuck to that philosophy hard.

So instead he tried to celebrate an altogether more different Christmas here, the food was the same, and the presents were relatively few, but there was a different sort of vibe here, a genuine happiness and joyfulness that seemed infectious, so far removed from the gentle prayers of thanks that he had experienced in his own life.

There was a different kind of beauty to it, and whilst he wasn’t ever going to be happy that none of his family were here to see him, he started to come to terms with the idea that there is more than one word for family. There were more ways than one to enjoy your life.

Sherlock, though he shared Christmas dinner in the other dining room, had stuck with John much of the day, sharing with him comments about interesting crimes Christmases past and a fervent hope that he could enjoy the crimes of Christmas future. As a strange sort of present, Sherlock had received a file of interesting holiday cold-cases and he, though reluctant to show it, was thrilled by the gift, an excuse to read carefully and puzzle over long since decomposed bodies.

It wasn’t from a family member, Sherlock hadn’t been given it by Mycroft, but it had to have come from somewhere.

“Old friend,” Sherlock stated simply as John sat in the silence of the day room, far too cold out now to enjoy sitting in the garden.

“Sorry, what?” John enquired, suddenly breaking free from his own mind.

“You were making it obvious that you wondered who bought be the cases, they came to me via and old friend. Sort of.”

“Sort of gave them to you or sort of a friend?” He had given up trying to figure out how Sherlock could apparently read his mind.

“The latter, although the former also applies at times.”

“Your police colleague?” John asked again, ever curious about Sherlock’s life. Sherlock simply hummed, completely non-committal.

As they lapsed back into the clear silence, John mulled over the differences in how he had spent his Christmas as oppose to how he had spent the Christmases of his childhood. He had had a very different day, he couldn’t say he was happy, he was rarely happy these days, but there was a kind of contentment that he hadn’t experienced in a while. It was as close to true happiness as he felt he was likely to get, at least for now.

He imagined an alternative day, a day where he sat stiffly by his mother’s side as she prayed softly, eyes closed and lips barely moving, a day of prayers and contemplation. He looked around him now, surrounded by a different sort of silence, a different kind of contemplation. Despite it all, despite the circumstances, he felt that Christmas here had been just as good, just as rewarding. That was definitely a start.

~*~

As expected, John hadn’t seen his family over Christmas, but what was an unexpected turn of events was the arrival on New Year’s Day.

“John,” Mrs Hudson said gently as John was putting his tray away after breakfast, “You’ve got a visitor.”

“Oh,” John uttered, incredibly confused. He didn’t know anyone who would want to visit him, especially on a frigid first day of the year, the cold and the wet stopping most people from doing anything but the most essential trips outside of the home.

He opened the door to the visitor’s room, not sure who to expect, but being surprised to find his father sitting in the chair, pristinely wrapped present in hand. He stood jerkily as John walked towards him. He opened his arms, as if going for a hug, but unsure as to whether that would be welcomed or not. His father looked sad, scared almost to be here, and John decided that, if his father wasn’t going to take the initiative, then John would have to, and so stepped forwards to accept an awkward embrace.

It might not have been ideal, and it was certainly unusual for his father to show any physical affection, but it was welcome. John hadn’t realise how much basic physical affection could help the mind until he had gotten here and started seeing what life was like for those who, for various reasons, couldn’t bring themselves to cross that barrier.

“I…” his father began, and then instead sat down. “ Merry Christmas.” He held out the parcel to John with both hands.

“Thanks,” he said, carefully seating himself before unwrapping it, finding, to his surprised, a group of heavy A-level text books.

“Dr Stamford told me that you were borrowing the books from the tutors, and I thought it would be good for you to have a copy of your own to scribble in. I know that at this point it doesn’t really make much difference, but…”

“No,” John insisted, feeling quite overwhelmed, “It’s perfect, thank you.” A lump had stubbornly formed in his throat and was refusing to leave dispute John’s insistence that he shouldn’t have been emotional over such a gift. It was a practical gift, not one that held sentiment and emotion, but this was the closest his father had come to recognising his academic ambitions, to look at what he was doing as something important outside of the church, rather than expecting, as his mother had, that he would go into mission or service.

They shared a communion of silence it seemed, letting things of the past be left there in order to enjoy the company in the present. It was his father who broke the hush.

“I heard about Carl, John.” He began, “more specifically I heard how you were told about Carl. I should have been there, and I’m sorry.”

John couldn’t reply, teeth clenched against the words that he wanted to say, accusing words, venomous words, but he didn’t want to ruin the positive atmosphere, in so much as there was one. Not for a stupid quip that would solve nothing, nor would it bring back his childhood friend.

“I know I never said much at the time, John and I really should have, but your mother had never been well. I really thought letting her build her own support systems, giving her a way to help with the anxieties of her own mind would be best for everyone. It would give you all a chance to be close to her and not have to spend your childhood watching her be carted in and out of your life whenever the mania set in. I had always thought it best to have a mother with you. I fear that I was very wrong.”

“You weren’t wrong, dad.” John said, the need to comfort overwhelming, though he felt that he was lying, “You did what you could.”

“No,” he insisted, shaking his head, “I didn’t. I had suspected that something had happened to Carl at home, back then.” He hesitated and John didn’t know if he wanted to talk about this, “I wasn’t blind. I just kept thinking that it was hard enough to deal with my own family, that I couldn’t hope to assume I could fix someone else’s. I admit that I was prejudice. I was fighting to fit into the definition of normal and your problems with Carl stemmed from something so far removed from that. It’s not an excuse John, but I was raised in a very different time. It took too long for me to realise that you were just as normal as any other pre-teen with their first crush. By the time I realised it the damage had already been done. For that I don’t think I could ever be sorry enough.”

John knew that his family had hated him, or at least judged him for whom he had been attracted to, but to hear it clearly said in so many words was painful. To hear his father admit that he was _wrong_ for it was even more so, it had taken so little time for everything to change. If his father had just managed to get his head around the situation a little quicker, everything might have been different. That difference, that life he might have lead was circling around his mind until he was sobbing silently into his lap, tears blurring the words on the covers of the books that sat there.

He didn’t realise how badly he had been sobbing until John felt familiar, but strange arms wrapped around his own shoulders, tears soaked the cotton of his father’s shirt and shakes were absorbed in his larger frame. ‘I’m sorry,’ was whispered into John’s hair as he cried, ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

“I know you loved Carl dearly, even if just as a friend.” His father continued “I hope that one day you might be able to forgive me for what became of him.”

It was the first time someone had apologised for what had happened between him and Carl. Not for his death, but for his life.

John couldn’t forgive just yet, but he was starting to think that he might be able to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason in all of my fictional headcannons Sherlock and Mycroft are always half French, and from this they have the aptitude to pick up many languages with ease. Don't ask me why, maybe it's a secret wish to be French.


	7. Phlegethon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our hero must walk the fine line of the fires between dreams and reality.

Sweet sixteen had been a lie, and now seventeen wasn’t shaping up to be any better. He was stuck, he was stagnant, and he was terrified. Everything he had once known about himself, once liked about himself had become a challenge to hold onto, a half forgotten memory. Nothing was himself anymore, and the depression was getting worse. He didn’t have to remember what life was like before the accident, to fully appreciate that his life had to be considerably worse now. Almost anything would be better than this.

The only freedom he got, the only real reprieve, was the insistence by the physiotherapist that he needed to walk in order to ensure that his leg was strong. Initially his mother hadn’t let him out of the house, but at his second appointment the therapist looked at his leg in mild alarm and frustration. He had told John in no uncertain terms, that if he didn’t start walking meaningfully on his leg he would never be able to regain use of the muscles that were left. They were starting to waste, and if he didn’t show significant improvement by his next appointment he would have to refer the case on.

His mother had not liked that one bit, she had always been reluctant to let go of even the meanest bit of control, but she could see that if her options boiled down to letting John walk around outside, or having someone else involved in the case and take _all_ control from her, then she was going to take the former. Due to this, no matter how much she actually meant it, she informed John that he needed to be free to take walks.  She insisted the walks were to allow him to think about God, and pray through physical motion. It was complete spin doctoring on her part, and was never happier for it. Not that he was actually particularly happy, but he would take what he could.

He was allowed to walk only at certain times of the day, most notably the mid-afternoon, and he had to be back within a certain time or his mother would come to drag him back home. He suspected that she thought he was using his injury as an excuse to haunt gay bars. It might have been something he _would_ have done for a laugh. If only there were ones open in the middle of the day. If only there were ones in this stupid town at all.

But he _was_ allowed to walk for those moments. He had almost gotten used to the dead weight now, and if nothing else, he had built up some considerable arm muscles in the time that it took for him to get out of the wheelchair.

He had been using the walks to think, the thoughts were not good ones, often dark and desperate, bringing a sense of the futility to these long meanders. The sense of hopelessness and loss about his own mind stuck with him, but it was better to have these thoughts away from the ruling of his mother.

Occasionally, though, there was something else, some other thing it almost seemed an extrinsic spark, He knew that there was nowhere else from which the spark could have come but inside. It was often a fleeting thought, gone within a moment, but it breathed gently the words; next year will be better. This fictional voice told him that, even if he was now too stupid to go to university, even if he had missed out on the chance to start his A-levels proper, he still was going to be eighteen in just under a year. Ten months that was all. It was almost the end of May already.

He was ticking down the days until he could leave, although he knew it would never be as easy as that.

That bright spark always faded quicker than a shooting star, but the echoes of it lingered a little longer even when there was none of that same certainty left in him. It wasn’t affirming, there was little left to affirm in his mind, but each spark tided him over through the dark until the next moment where he could seize the sensation again. The dark was still dark, there was nothing that John could do to stop that, but there was an afterimage held in it.

He decided that it was probably to do with endorphins, whatever those things were. People seemed to think they were a miracle cure for everything anyway. They would be a good product to bottle. Sell to people. Be happy, they would say, because nothing else is going to make you happy.

He doubted the marketing campaign would take off; not enough interest.

There were a few different routes that John chose to walk down. It depended on the day he had been having as to which one he chose first, but there was enough variety in the terrain to keep his physio happy, and enough change in scenery to keep his mind relatively blank for a while, a little reprieve from everything before the knocks started coming again. They always came, except in those brief moments.

The days continued on, and every day John felt physically stronger. He concentrated on that, the strange sort of positive from the situation. Of everything that John used to care about, used to value as essential traits of an rounded human being, John could honestly say that he never valued physical strength highly, but for now that small positive was all he was getting, so he held onto it. How far he could walk, jog, sprint in the free time he was allotted became of significant importance to him.

He started that walk softly, silently, hoping not to attract the attention of his mother whose only reassurance was that John couldn’t get very far. If she knew that he could almost run a marathon now, she wouldn’t be so eager to let him walk. He always put on a bit of a show, he would stutter in his walk, make sure his pace was slow, make it look as if there was still a long way to go, and then he would start to walk away normally once he knew that the only people in visible range were the neighbours, still not safe enough to do what he really wanted to do.

He would then make his way to the edge of the forest. From there he could run, uninhibited, along the half paths through the trees. He knew this route now, knew how avoid getting his feet to stuck on the roots, knew how to duck under branches, he knew how to let go, just a little.

It was nice along here, although in the beginning he skirted too close to the river and started to get a panic attack. He managed to control himself after a time, something he was incredibly grateful for, because he couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to imagine, what his mother would have done if he hadn’t come back under his own steam. She would have used as an excuse to never let him leave the house on his own, that was for certain.

He still had to cross the river to get to the forested area, but the bridge wasn’t as scary to him as he thought it would be. It was tall, and the fences weren’t so short that he could accidentally trip over them and off the bridge. His feet pounding against the sturdy ground was quite therapeutic and he almost wished that he had taken up athletics when he was in school, even though he knew he would never have been allowed near the field, the boys in the school wouldn’t have let him.

This was the kind of sport he liked anyway, even in a competition, the only true comparison one had was oneself. A race might have involved other people, but there were no other teammates, it was just the track. He wouldn’t have had to rely on others to work with him and to communicate with him or trust their ability to go near him without pressing his face into the dirt.

He had no inclination to compete anyway. He wouldn’t ever be good enough, and he doubted there was a squad for amputees anywhere near the town he was stuck in. People didn’t like that sort of thing; it took away from the aesthetic of the place he guessed. God he hated it here.

There was no out from here anyway; he wasn’t going to be able to go back to school, so he wasn’t exactly going to be able to enjoy some cliché underdog story where he won the hearts and minds of the people by being really good at running despite overcoming terrible adversities. His life was a tragedy, one of those art house films where everyone ends up unhappy or dead, or unhappy _then_ dead. His life was one of those films which never did well in the box office because they were too fucking depressing. He wouldn’t even be able to get the half-optimistic tragic ending that picked up Oscar nods for being a ‘brave film’. His would just be terrible. Pathetic.

He admired the lights shifting over the swaying tree tops, not looking to the sides of the bridge where he once used to enjoy the view because it still caused a stutter of panic in his chest. He slowed to a walk, both to avoid the gazes of people who were potentially too close to his mother, and also to buy himself time to enjoy the view, to enjoy his freedom before he had to return home for another day of prayer and ‘therapy’.

His peace, his momentary mindlessness, was harshly interrupted by that same voice that had found him here before. The voice that had been a constant his whole damn life. Some part of his mind remembered what happened before and the adrenaline that ran through him felt as sharp as a knife. He had to remind himself that he could run this time. That he was strong enough to walk away. That he didn’t have to be stupid enough to engage him. Unfortunately Carl didn’t make it that easy.

“Look, it’s the little retard. Are you allowed out without a minder to wipe your drool, or did you escape the straight jacket?”

It was funny that Carl was saying these things to him, bothering to engage him when there was only the two of them on the bridge. Even the twitching curtains on the road near this side were still. There was no audience here, no-one that he had to play up to. It must have been strange, to grow into a role that you never wanted. He used to ignore John when he didn’t have to show his hatred in front of the crowd, but John guessed that if you pretended to be something for long enough, whatever was there before eventually got replaced.

He vaguely recalled that it took seven years for all the cells in a body to be replaced.

It had been about seven years hadn’t it? The last parts Carl that remembered how to care about John, the last calcified grains of cells in the depths of his bones, had finally been replaced. Carl was now literally not the same person that John used to care about, used to love.

“What?” John said, stopping to send a vaguely withering look to the boy. It was funny; he was so scared of the water, but the boy who threw him there didn’t raise that same emotion in him, not to the same degree at least. Only as much as a vague sense of self-preservation did. The rest of his brain had shut off in the way it had done many times since John’s ‘accident’.

Carl scoffed in the same way he did when trying to elicit a reaction from his cronies. “ _Retarded._ ” He emphasised, drawing out the word. “Can’t your brain handle big words, idiot?”

This time, John was just _done_.

“Don’t have to have a dick showing contest just because you’re gay.” John replied. It was one on one this time and John was fed up of playing dead. He was fucking alive, no thanks to this cunt, and he had had a lot of time to be angry about it.

He was told, a long while after the fact, that throwing oneself into risky or dangerous situations needlessly was a strong indicator of suicidal depression. It had certainly fit at the time.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Carl growled, as animalistic as his needless posturing had always been.

“Didn’t you understand? What’s your excuse for being retarded? At least I sustained heavy brain damage; you appear to just be a thick cunt. Probably why you like cock so much.” It was crass, and god it made John cringe to even hear himself say it, but if he wanted to fight on Carl’s level, he was going to have to get dirty, say things that he would never mean. Say things just to get a response.

“Say shit like that again and you’re a dead man.”

Carl was dangerously close to the limits of his ability to behave like a vaguely rational human, but John didn’t want him to be rational. John had to keep pushing, keep poking, keep scratching at the festering wounds that Carl still bore.

“What, so it was another Carl Powers who made me a mix cd of love songs and kissed me by the river like some kind of chick-flick? You know ‘cause I could have sworn that was you.” John’s blood was pumping in his veins as loud as thunder. When did he get so brave? Probably when he stopped caring whether he died or not.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Carl spat, starting to advance slowly, although the colour had drained from his face at the reminder. John had found the trigger.

“Aw, do you still love me?” John cooed, flying on autopilot now, “I’m not surprised you tried to kill me then, that’s how your daddy showed he loved you, right?”

John could see every muscle bunching in Carl’s body, ready to leap at John’s throat, ready to strike, to rip out his jugular.

“I think I’ve moved on, but you know, we can get you another boyfriend if you want. There are some gay clubs in the next city over I think.”

John had said enough. Carl came charging at him with zero finesse, the pure anger and hatred of someone who had heard everything they hated about themselves shoved into their face. This time, however, was different, this time John was ready for Carl. He might have been taller, but John had the element of surprise on his side, he had seen the attack coming and used Carl’s own height to his advantage. The well placed tackle brought him tumbling to the ground where upon John leapt on top of him.

What John lacked in skill he made up for in speed and determination, tearing into every opening he could find. Carl wasn’t exactly lying idle, but John had gone numb with the fight. He found afterwards that had he tore his thumbnail down the middle, broke two fingers and one of his hand bones in the assault. He didn’t know why, but he hadn’t felt the pain, or maybe he had and he just liked it.

It was so easy, too easy, to drag Carl up and almost over the barrier by the lapels of his shirt. Carl hadn’t expected it and only just managed to hook his knees over the edge of railing to prevent himself sliding further. He was clinging to John’s arms again, but this time he was holding on for dear life rather than trying to restrain John or cause him harm. His eyes were wide with fear and something in John was still not registering it, still not working out what this all meant. John held the advantage here; it would have been so easy to tip the boy over the edge, even if John would have been taken down with him.

“You destroyed my life,” he spat with vitriol, “I could have gotten out of here, left this fucking god-forsaken place and been somewhere else. Just because you were happy to be your dad’s good little bitch and piss your life away in this back water shithole, having a wife you could only fuck when drunk and kids you hated, it didn’t mean I was. I _wasn’t_. Now I don’t get that choice. I’m just as stuck here as you are you complete pussy, I hope that you’re fucking happy.”

The quality of what was happening changed there. Carl’s voice, far from how he had sounded like before, became calm and accusing. “It all started with you.” He threw at John. “You were the one who fell in love with me first.”

“What?” John asked, confused, his own voice seemed far away, like it wasn’t real.

“You made me love you. You loved me too hard, and it made my father hate me. You destroyed _my_ life first. It all started with you.” He accused. ‘ _you, you, you.’_. It was all John’s fault. It had always been John’s fault. He had started all of this.

“Shut up!” He shrieked, he didn’t know whether he was talking to Carl or the voices in his own head.

“If you hadn’t been a bad person none of this would have happened.” Carl continued, sounding weirdly like John’s mother. “You would have still been my friend, and I would have still been happy, and we could have both gone to university and gotten good jobs and lived happy lives. You corrupted us. You made this all happen.” He continued to monotone.

“That’s enough!” John said, forcing Carl to let go of his arms, forcing him to tumble over the edge of the rail and into the black swirling water underneath. He floated down like a feather, and when he hit the surface he didn’t make a sound.

‘It was all _your_ fault.’ The bubbles of air seemed to accuse as they rose to the surface. The strangely crystal clear water letting him see Carl drown slowly, not even struggling, not even trying to break free from the hold of the fingers of cold water forcing their way down his nose and throat. Instead that almost-corpse was using every last drop of energy to accuse John, to make sure he knew where the blame lay.

 _Your fault_. The water whispered.

_It’s all your fault._

~*~

“Carl never really said any of that stuff about having loved me once.” John explained, having to remind himself that that stuff was long over now. That the rest had been a dream.

“He was just stunned into silence by that point, probably thought I was a nutcase. My father came along when I started ranting about how I could have gotten out of that place. Carl was right over the edge, and it would have been so easy to just let go of him. I was so much stronger than I had ever been because of all the running and rehabilitation. Carl didn’t dare fight me because he knew he would fall from there. It was my father who stopped me.”

John was shaking a little in his chair, feeling sick even admitting that; he hadn’t saved Carl because it was the right thing to do, but because _someone else_ had intervened in the nick of time.

“I don’t think I thanked my dad for being there. I probably should have, because in the mind-set I was in at the time I _would_ have killed Carl. Would have been done for a lot more than assault and attempted murder.”

The court case had been horrible because of that word. _Murder_. When that word was involved John’s image went from that of a bad kid, to one of a hardened psychopath, though in truth there was no difference in the actions between the charges. The only difference was perceived intent.

Mr Powers had pushed for the harshest charge he could manage considering what had actually happened. It seemed as though he held a lot of sway in the small town, and the police added ‘attempted murder’ to the already obvious charge of aggravated assault. The twitching curtains had been John’s downfall, a street full of witnesses who had looked outside at the start of the commotion. Once they had seen, it was easy for Carl’s father to pressure people into testifying against John.

Watching Carl on the witness stand it was clear that even Carl hadn’t wanted to be there. There was none of that joyful sadism that John had come to expect out of his ex-love, instead there was almost sadness there, almost an apology, but not quite. Regret was trumped, as always, by fear of his father.

It was only the psychologists, and there had been many of them, that landed him here rather than in prison.

“Do you have this dream often, John?” Mike asked him, offering John a cup of hot Ribena to help his nerves. Blackcurrant juice to calm the nerves almost seemed funny, except John seemed to have lost all mirth of late.

“I’ve not dreamed of what happened with Carl since before the trial, and I’ve never actually dreamed of killing him.” John explained.

“I won’t trivialise this John, but normally people worry about their dreams when they have experienced them repeatedly, such as your initial accident. Why do you think you’re so affected by this dream?”

John shrugged, trying for nonchalance, but feeling anything but indifferent. “Because I feel like I killed him I guess,” John was becoming a good little psychoanalyst in his own right, “I know I didn’t really physically hurt him that day, not like he had hurt me, what I did was nothing in comparison, but I felt like I was used everything at my disposal to make him crack. I could see that those words got to him, and if he killed himself then I can’t help but feel the things I reminded him of played a big part.”

“I don’t want to sound like a stuck record here, John, but…”

“I know.” John interrupted, “It’s not my fault.”

Mike smiled almost affectionately, “You say that, but I have a feeling you don’t believe it.”

“Always a difference between knowing and believing.” John tried to sound wise, but in the end he sounded like a bad Yoda impression. “I guess I can’t help it, because even if I wasn’t the _cause_ , everything that _was_ the cause I was involved in. Even indirectly, like the stuff with his dad was because of what Carl did for _me._ There’s this part of me that can’t separate the two.”

“It’s very astute of you to note the difference, John.” Mike praised, “And it is _my_ job to make sure that you separate them, and then believe me when I say, ‘it is not your fault’.”

The sigh that John gave was quietly exasperated, exhausted by the constant reminders that he still had a lot of work to do in the ‘feeling okay with himself’ journey he was on. “I look forward to it.” He said, hoping that it sounded light-hearted, rather than depressive.

“How are your studies going John?” Mike eventually asked after a few more back and forth reassurances of guiltlessness. “Your exams are very soon now it’s the New Year, do you feel prepared?”

“Yes, surprisingly.” John admitted, “It’s kind of nice being back in school and studying stuff, I almost forgot how much I enjoyed that bit of it. It’s not easy, but it’s not as hard as I was scared it might be after…” He tapped his head in lieu of finishing the sentence.

“Good luck with them, if you ever need anything else, or any additional assistance I would be more than willing to help, but I believe I’ve held you long enough, dinner time will soon be upon us.”

John was actually slightly sad to leave, he had wanted to talk about more than just his stupid dream, he had wanted to chat to Mike like he was a friend and not a therapist, but he was glad for dinner. He just hoped that the kitchen had finally finished off the turkey.

~*~

The first few weeks of January passed in a flurry of studying that was so intense that John could almost imagine that he was in a boarding school rather than a mental hospital. Maybe he was Harry Potter, carried into a world where he suddenly had friends and was accepted, and then he would become the chosen one, destined to defeat a dastardly villain.

Except he looked around and he was still an inpatient, so any parallels between his life and Harry Potter’s were pure psychotic delusion, but at least he was in the right place to deal with psychotic delusion.

He certainly had his Hermione though, the close friend and study partner. Sherlock however was less inclined to study for his own well-being than the fictional witch. In fact, John was fairly certain if wasn’t helping John, then  Sherlock would have long committed the relevant facts to memory and  gotten on to something far more important, but John didn’t absorb information in the way Sherlock did, so he instead had to study often, and with increasing intensity as the exams loomed. John didn’t want to leave a single mark to chance.

He would already have enough to overcome on his university applications – something that seemed more and more like a solid reality to John – without having even marginally questionable exam results. The only way they might overlook his current incarceration was if every exam, recommendation and report was _perfect._ He couldn’t afford anything less. Whether Sherlock truly cared about John’s career ambitions or not – John wasn’t even sure if Sherlock was aware of them – he indulged John’s compulsive need to revise every spare moment of his day as long as John was happy to be his partner in crime, or rather his partner in solving crime.

John himself thought he was fairly useless, but Sherlock insisted that it was imperative that he had someone to talk to, just to bounce ideas off even if John had no useful input of his own. Sherlock was blunt that way.

He was starting to forget the time when he didn’t have facts drawled at him by a so-reclined-he’s-practically-upside-down Sherlock. He was glad that he had a companion to help him through this, because that voice stuck in his head far more than the words on the page.

Any little bit of help John was grateful for; this exam session was already going to be hard enough; he was trying to get the whole of the two year course squeezed into one year, meaning he was to be subject to eight exams rather than four. He wondered how he had managed to talk the tutor into submitting him for the entire AS in one sitting, but he was starting to think that the _tutor_ was the one who needed therapy. His tutor reassured him that lots of people who had the time and attention of a singular tutor tried for the A-levels in one year, and that he should be more than capable of achieving good results.

But John didn’t need _good_ results. He needed _immaculate_ results.

Even though it was his idea, sometimes he felt like blaming other people for the decision to fast track. He was always forced to relent, however as there was no one else to blame. No one but himself and his stupid over ambition. He had never been like this before, allowing himself the delusion that he could do something so complicated, but here he was, suffering as a consequence of it. His tutor had also insisted that he could slow down and re-sit everything in the summer if this turned out to be too much for him to cope with. There was no shame in slowing down.

Except that John couldn’t risk re-sits, if the university asked to know his full exam history rather than just his final results it would make the difference between getting and not getting in to the course of his choice.

“State two differences between diamond and graphite and explain them on a molecular level.”

Right, John knew this, strength, graphite rubs off in layers, diamond’s molecules are all interconnected, graphite had spare electrons to conduct electricity, diamond didn’t. Simple easy, but what if he didn’t remember that later? This was an eternal panic for him, his success was only guaranteed if he was able to remember and his mind was _not_ reliable. Even when John was _right_ he was scared.

Binomial expansion, Atomic structure, The Nervous Arc, Matrix Algebra. The list of things he had to not only commit to memory, but to understand fully was enormous and he felt that it was a list that was ever growing. Every time he came up against something that he didn’t recall or didn’t understand he panicked internally. He didn’t have time to learn all the things he didn’t know. Even with Sherlock calmly sitting beside him, explaining the details of whatever aspect of Le Chatellier’s Principal he was forgetting, he felts rolls of sickness run through his stomach.

“John,” Sherlock sought his attention when it had dissipated. “You are going to excel in these exams. You are easily able to recall the information you need to, no matter how useless it might be in the real world. There is little that you need to concern yourself with apart from keeping calm.”

It was exactly what John needed to hear in that moment.

“Thanks,” he replied simply, the vote of confidence helping him greatly, even though he could see that every word Sherlock had spoken was all to calm him. Every gesture was calculated, manufactured rather than sincere, the fact that Sherlock had gone to the effort to try and manufacture that sentiment actually was truer and more endearing than the actual words themselves.

Sherlock probably knew that too, the smug git.

“I can practically hear your mind working, John. Come on, you have more equations to solve. You will be too distracted if you don’t reassure yourself that you are capable of such medial tasks. Then when I need you, you will inevitably be useless.”

“When do you ever need me?” John asked, trying to sound funny, but feeling something clench in his stomach.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.” Sherlock replied, in the same way he did when there was an obvious deduction missed, “There is no need for you to sell yourself short, and not about this either.” He finished, lifting the text book for emphasis.

“Now, let’s look at limits.” Sherlock offered curls splaying attractively against the sofa as he picked up the maths questions.

Yes. Limits. Limits were important, and John found himself increasingly had to remind his own mind of that fact.

~*~

The good thing John supposed about the exams was they brought with them some degree of distraction, distraction from all the things that had been plaguing him. They gave him distraction from his messed up family life, and from Carl’s death and from his hesitantly growing, but completely inappropriate pull towards Sherlock and the half-visions of a future he had once given up on imagining. Good or bad, those thoughts were all heavy, and they were far too much for John almost all of the time.

The pressure of the exams were a more immediate focus, something that he could turn his attention to because they were so imminent, much more so than grandiose ideas of a distant future or the potential moment in time where he would be okay with his Father’s inability to make his mother seek professional help. The exams were knocking on his door demanding to be paid attention to.

However, this left no time for the space where most people would think about something more relaxing than their exams. The exams _were_ the down time, and that didn’t leave John any room to breathe.

The one thing he had which gave him respite from his constantly heighted state of anxiety and preparation was his burgeoning friendship with Molly. Whilst Molly still did not speak to him, he learned a lot about her and in turn she learned a lot about him. They talked hobbies and TV shows (the ones they were allowed to watch at least) and plans for the patches of Garden they had been allotted near each other. Well, John talked. Molly scribbled.

She never asked for the details of why he was there. All the information they shared was superficial and light. Their friendship was built on the ease of not having to speak, because in the end it wasn’t their business to know everything about the other person, so Molly didn’t pry, and he returned the favour.

He actually knew very little about her, he wasn’t even sure of her age, although he could hazard a guess that she was a little younger than him, as he spotted a GCSE copy of Twelfth Night in her bag, so she was probably fifteen or sixteen. Secretly he was pleased that he spotted this, as though he was getting deduction points, but that made him think of Sherlock and that put his brain on high alert again, so he stopped thinking of it.

He was happy for his reprieve with Molly, and looked forward to that half an hour a day in her company where they would exchange pointless words over whatever nutritious concoction the kitchen had dreamed up that day. He thought that, of all the people he had met and interacted with here, she was probably the one he would want to keep in touch with the most. She had a soft way about her that was just a nice and stark contrast from all the hardened people he had known in his time.

It didn’t really occur to him that her meekness spilled over to a placidness that was more of a symptom than a character trait.

Though it should have been obvious from her perpetual silence, it was too easy to forget that she was sick. It was brought home to him like a sledge hammer not on the occasions where he would have to wait a moment for a direct response to a question, but in one event about three days before the exams started.

He had made somewhat of a routine of sitting with Molly in the dining hall. He went to lunch at more or less the same time every day during those moments between his group therapy session and hers. He would come in and sit at what he mentally referred to as ‘their table’. Sometimes she was there first, sometimes he was, but no matter, it was the same routine.

That was until that day. That day where he sat down to join Molly and she got up and walked away.

He thought that maybe she was running late for something, perhaps she had a family meeting or another appointment and she didn’t have time to go rummaging in her bag to explain. Even that seemed to strike John as incorrect; there was an economy of gesture between them, even if she hadn’t time to explain why. A simple wave of her hand in front of her face, or a little apologetic frown or _something_ would have said, ‘Sorry, can’t talk now. Another time.’, but she did none of those things. She didn’t even look him in the eye.

It was almost to the point where he thought that perhaps she hadn’t seen him, except that he was almost certain she had.

After a quick lunch – if he wasn’t going to share in Molly’s company then being on his own not working just caused his brain to go into overdrive – he left deciding to go off and find Sherlock and perhaps recap the chirality stuff, when he spotted Molly on one of the community sofa’s with Jim.

Perhaps it was he who she had made an appointment with, perhaps he had requested that they spend some time together. It was quite clear that he had _some_ form of romantic attachment to her and though he doubted Molly would be prepared to return another person’s affection for many years to come, it was clear from her smiles that she appreciated his company.

Though Jim was keeping his hands to himself, and was being careful to not share any physical contact with her, the looks Jim gave her said enough about his feelings, in fact they said more than words ever could.  Just because a thought, a feeling wasn’t expressed in language, it didn’t mean that it wasn’t expressed.

John’s decision to join them was not thought through. He didn’t justify it, even in retrospect, he just fancied talking to her, and he liked Jim well enough from their limited conversations.

But when he went up to join them – they really were the only ones he spoke to after all – the look on her face shocked him so much that he relented. She had looked petrified by his presence. Even on that first day when they had been perfect strangers Molly hadn’t looked that frightened to see John. Jim, for his part, hadn’t noticed John, and started muttering in a concerned tone at his friend. John couldn’t hear the words, but he could see the intent, so he walked away quickly, before Jim could notice him.

~*~

He found Sherlock a while later, after he had been fed under the carefully watchful eye of the kitchen staff, looking through his phone with a great intensity. He probably had a case on, he normally did, but there was a subtle difference between the active and passive portions of a case and the way they wore themselves on Sherlock’s face.

John was surprised to have that gaze turned on him, Sherlock normally blocked out the real world when he was thinking, he stopped talking and focused only on what was in front of him, the things that were pertinent to the work, but Sherlock seemed to give that pattern up for John, and he didn’t quite understand why.

“Something’s bothering you,” he stated, not a question, but a fact, something unable to be argued.

“Yup.” John said, unsure about whether he really wanted to talk about this. It was certainly be of no interest to Sherlock, but he asked anyway, because it was bothering John.

“You’re going to be thinking about it all day, you might as well tell me what it is.” He reasoned logically, in a way that gave John no real choice.

“Molly ignored me today, she was actively avoiding me. She seemed terrified when I had found her and I just don’t know what I did. She didn’t have a problem with Jim.”

Sherlock in return gave John his patterned ‘I’m deducing’ look.

“Was there any conversation leading up to her disappearance? Perhaps any prior that could have offended her?”

John thought about it, really deeply thought because he wanted to know what he had done, but there was nothing, he hadn’t strayed into dangerous territory, nothing he had said had sparked even the slightest look of discomfort on her face. “No,” he decided finally, “No there really wasn’t.”

“But she was with Jim?” Sherlock asked for confirmation.

John just nodded, thinking everything through again, wondering what it was that had happened.

“I assume that he displayed some amorous inclinations towards her.” Sherlock, again, stated.

“I guess so,” John agreed, “He did try to touch her or anything, they were just talking, but he did look like he… I don’t know, liked her a bit I guess.”

“Don’t try to speak to Molly right now,” Sherlock insisted, “She will react badly, speak to Jim first, make him aware of her condition, and then if necessary go to Mike.”

“What is it that happened?”

Sherlock sat carefully, fingers steepled under his chin. “I don’t know the exact details, but Molly, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, was a victim of long term abuse. Her abuser had… persuaded her I suppose, that his intentions were entirely romantic, but that she was not allowed to communicate with other people, thus her complete and utter silence. She had been taught that love means complete submission to another to the point of slavery. She would believe that to be worthy of Jim’s romantic attentions she would be forbidden from communicating with anyone but him. Whilst she is probably aware of her actions, such conditioning is hard to overcome.”

“Okay.” John said, accepting Sherlock’s explanations, because that was why there were all here; to get better. It wasn’t like he hadn’t suspected something like that about his friend, it just made it terribly real to hear it from someone else. To have it explained in such a clinical way. He was just sort of _numb_ in the wake of it.

“I understand that it is worrying to you John, but this is why she is in this institution with expert care. I assure you, that it will not take long for someone to notice her backwards progress. It took you mere hours day to note it.”

John didn’t reply, feeling a tightness in his chest that stopped him from being able to speak.

“Speak to Jim, explain what Molly is doing, I’m sure he’ll be reasonable enough to withdraw. None of us here should pursue such relationships anyway.”

“Yeah,” John conceded, “You’re right. I’ll talk to him.” He reminded himself of the same thing daily.

“So, now that’s sorted I’d like your opinion on this carpet.” Sherlock concluded with a flourish, shoving the picture on his phone underneath John’s nose for his inspection.

Right. It was sorted, because everything was fixed by solving the puzzle. The aftermath was not part of Sherlock’s problem. Aftermath was for other people to deal with.

But it was _John_ who felt he had to deal with the aftermath, in more ways than one.

~*~

When Sherlock headed off to his own scheduled appointment, John went to find Jim, hoping that he wasn’t in his own meeting. He happened to be in luck, because Jim was in the commons, flicking through an old fantasy novel, though not one that John recognised.

“Hey Jim,” He began, waiting for a response before sitting down.

“Hi, Johnny.” Jim replied, looking up from his book with a smile, “How are you today?”

“Alright,” he cut off quickly, “Listen, do you… you know, _like_ Molly?”

Jim’s shy little blush was answer enough, but he gave a short nod anyway, suddenly engrossed with something on the table. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t want to be a downer, Jim, but I really don’t think it’s a good idea to let her see that.”

“You don’t like her do you?” he asked, with perfect concern, “I didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes, I just like talking to her.”

“No, I don’t like her in that way. That’s not the problem.” He tried to keep his tone even and mollifying, hoping that Jim could understand. “You know she’s very sick don’t you?”

“I suppose.” Jim said, “I mean I know she doesn’t really talk, but she’s still nice.”

John didn’t want to explain the whole problem, telling secrets that weren’t his to tell was more of Sherlock’s bag than his, but he felt the need to explain _some_ of it.

“Molly was very hurt by someone before.” John said, “A romantic relationship would be _very_ bad for her. It makes her start to shut down. She might stop talking to her therapist, and that would be really bad.” It made Jim’s smile falter, dark ringed eyes dim a little as he slumped his shoulders, understanding.

“I _do_ like Molly, I mean, she’s so sweet, isn’t she?” He added, both affectionate and sad.

“Yeah,” John placated, “She’s lovely.”

“So lovely, but I don’t want to hurt her, I feel bad that I didn’t even realise what I was doing.”

“I didn’t think you would” John reassured him, “You just need to be careful.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

~*~

Mycroft’s visits were more regular than John had initially realised, he didn’t know when their scheduled day was, but there must have been one. His failure to notice pointed out how bad John was at linking the pieces together. He couldn’t even work out that Sherlock saw his brother more often than once a year, and clearly more often that the monthly “family days” that the institute held.

It also pointed out to John that Sherlock hadn’t _needed_ someone to be with him when Mycroft visited at Christmas, rather it seemed that Sherlock had requested company for _John’s_ benefit, so that he got to spend time with something like a family. John didn’t really know what to make of that.

John had been looking for Sherlock to run through some more past papers with him as the first exam was two days away now. John felt hopelessly co-dependant as he searched. When he finally heard Sherlock’s voice, it was from behind one of those doors, this one was not closed although it had the ‘in session’ sign up on the door.

“It’s all very fascinating,” Mycroft’s voice came in reply, when John was close enough to hear, “But I don’t know what it is you expect me to do about the Powers case.”

 _Powers case_. There was that phrase again, except now John knew what it meant. He held his breath and all but pressed up against the door to hear more.

“Look at these contusions, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, “surely you can see it,”

“Of course I can see it, Sherlock, but what does that prove? There’s nothing more than that, no other evidence that will help you. There aren’t even CCTV cameras down that way, let alone any that would still hold useful information.”

“I’ve correctly convicted men on less.”

“ _You_ have not convicted anyone, might I remind you Sherlock.” Mycroft insisted, “ _Lestrade_ convicted people when he had enough evidence to present your deductions in a court of law. As much as you might fancy that you solve these crimes, it is _he_ who does the actual leg work that allows the cases to be resolved. He would very quickly have his badge revoked if he stood up on a case and said, ‘this man is guilty because a drug addicted, sociopathic teenager told me so.’”

John was surprised at how much conviction Mycroft had in this matter, clearly he was starting to tire if the mask was starting to show even hairline fractures.

“Shame on you Mycroft, he’s a married man. Granted he won’t be married for much longer at this rate, but still, there’s eager and there’s stepping on another’s grave.”

“There is no grave stepping here, Sherlock.” Mycroft drawled, seemingly bored of it all.

“What contusions?” John asked, timidly pressing the door open by inches, making the other two aware that he was there and not wanting the two of them to get so far off the track they had been on.

From the look on Sherlock’s face it seemed he hadn’t actually noticed that John had been outside the door. It seemed strange that the boy who so badly wanted to be a detective would have missed something so obvious, but John reminded himself of Sherlock’s perfectly singular focus during case. John, despite his involvement, was not really part of this one.

Mycroft on the other hand seemed hardly surprised to see John, his focus was as sharp a Sherlock’s, but he had time for the world around him, and little interest in the case with the exception of appeasing his brother.

Sherlock held open file carefully in his hand, tilted away from John for the moment. Those were going to be full of photographs. Photographs of Carl’s vacated body. The corpse of a boy he had once called friend. He was touched that Sherlock thought enough to wish to spare John the trauma of seeing those images, but John was already haunted by the death of Carl, he doubted it could be made any worse.

“I want to know.” John stated simply, and so Sherlock carefully shuffled papers until he could pull out a single photo of a torso. It was bruised and battered, but it wasn’t all that offensive as photographs of dead people went. He was grateful.

“He was on the swim team was he not?” Sherlock asked, John nodded in agreement, “His body shows evidence of cramping, fitting and drowning _after_ trying to swim out of the river. If he had truly wished to die such efforts would not have been made, he could have been dead before he ever got to the strid. If this had been by his own hand, the bruising would have been distinctly post mortem, but the injuries were definitely sustained _before_ death. He was a strong wild water swimmer as well, as evidenced by his plethora of medals in outdoor triathlon. If he had wished to have avoided death it should have been simple for him, yet he shows signs of an uncharacteristic struggle. He was impeded in some way, but still showed that he wished to escape.”

“His father.” John swallowed carefully around the heavy lump that formed in his throat, coughing once with nerves, “His father had hit him sometimes,”

“I had thought it might be domestic originally,” Sherlock conceded, “But the bruises are so close to death that he would have been attacked at the river, it would be unlikely for such domestic violence to go unnoticed, such fights are rarely quiet. And that still doesn’t account for whatever drug Carl was given.”

“Drug?”

“To induce the fitting, to ensure that he wouldn’t survive.”

“What drug was it?”

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Sherlock admitted cheerfully, “the toxicology report came back clean, but it obviously means that the coroners haven’t been looking properly, I need my dear brother here to order a search for a few other chemicals that could be of import.”

“I am hardly in a position to be asking full for a full chemical screening of the body of some unknown teenager, Sherlock.” Mycroft reiterated, exasperatedly.

Sherlock’s face was a perfect picture of; _who do you think you’re talking to?_ and _bitch, please._ Both of which John might have found amusing if it weren’t for Sherlock actually pointing out to him what seemed like solid evidence for Carl’s murder. Trying to process that took precedence.

“Would you be willing to assist me on this, John?” Sherlock asked, “Being from the area, you would know the physical river better than anyone actually working on the case.”

“Of course I’ll help, Sherlock.” John agreed, “But couldn’t you work out everything you need to know from what you’ve got there?” he finished pointing out the evidence file in Sherlock’s hand.

“Photographs are all well and good, John but an insider’s knowledge is invaluable.”

They were interrupted by a polite knock on the door and the soft “Coo, coo.” From Mrs Hudson, “Hello, dears. That’s time I’m afraid.”

“Of course, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, standing and collecting all his papers together.

“Would you mind terribly if I spoke with John alone for a moment,” Mycroft addressed to Mrs Hudson.

Her face was conflicted, the scheduled time limits were quite strictly enforced, but John knew how persuasive the Holmes boys could be. “Well, really I shouldn’t.”

“It really will take only a moment of time.” He smiled; something that didn’t suit Mycroft much, it was tight-lipped, and insincere, but it convinced Mrs Hudson well enough.

“Two minutes only.” She said, “and I shall be right outside this door.”

Sherlock watched this exchange with mild, interest, but no more than that, instead choosing to stride off purposefully dramatically, “I shall meet you in your room John.”

John could do nothing more than wave carefully as he awaited his own certain doom at the hands of Holmes-the-elder.

“What are your intentions towards Sherlock?” He asked directly, two minutes did not leave time for skirting around an issue.

“Intentions?” John stuttered nervously, wondering what Mycroft could mean.

“Do you intend to remain in contact with my brother?”

John nodded, nervously, but found himself unable to say anything else.

“Sherlock’s condition makes it very important that people he meets are able to be relied upon.” He explained, “It would be very unfortunate for you if you found yourself to be… unreliable.”

“Right.” John accepted, “Be reliable. Good. Wasn’t planning on not. Being reliable that is.”

“Do you know of Sherlock’s mind-palace, John?” Mycroft continued, almost as if he hadn’t heard the response. Either that or he didn’t care about it.

“A bit,” John said, feeling bemused by this shift in conversation, “It’s a mental technique to store information when you don’t use it all the time. Isn’t it?”

“That’s what it is for most people,” Mycroft inhaled deeply before speaking, in that distinctive way John had noticed a few times, “for Sherlock the ‘palace’ has been more than that for a long time. It’s where _everything_ goes. Everything that he is not using in that moment gets stored behind doors. Sherlock does not have _idle_ thoughts. All of his thoughts are quite active. Even fairly basic tasks he has to prioritise and find during the day. If you’ve noticed, he doesn’t eat, barely sleeps. Every day he has to filter through that first room which he has called his ‘priority’ room, and food and rest are not, to him at least, of immediate priority. The only independent thought he has on a day to day basis is ‘check the priority room’, then he will function from there.”

“No offence Mycroft,” John interjected, “But this doesn’t really make any sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Mycroft asked rhetorically, “You have seen Sherlock in those rare moments where he hasn’t carefully calculated every thought and action. Sherlock does not function without the use of his mind palace.

“Okay,” John said, still feeling lost, “Imagine I’m really, really stupid and I need this explained without the use of locked room metaphors, and go from there. Can you explain again?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes as though it wasn’t difficult for him to imagine John as that sort of imbecile. “Sherlock is practically an amnesic.”

This made John sit up and take notice, “But he remembers _everything._ ”

“No,” Mycroft tried to explain, though John could already see that this would be a difficult concept to get his head around, “Sherlock _stores_ everything. He actually remembers very little.”

John said nothing, though made a half gesture with his hand as if to say ‘I have understood that part, please continue’.

“If you were to speak to Sherlock the moment he woke up in the morning he would barely be able to string two words together, I know that’s the case for most people when they haven’t had their dawn dose of caffeine, but for Sherlock it’s truly an inability to speak, or to even think. If asked to do so he his reduced back to a childlike state, unable to use adult reasoning skills, as I believe you witnessed early on in your acquaintance with him.”

John did remember that incident, Sherlock pleading with him like an infant to be able to go outside, even though it was completely impossible. Crying in the same way as children did when their favourite toy was broken; raw, honest, but completely irrational.

“It will take him mere moments of time for that primary instruction to kick in, the instruction to ‘check the priority room’. In there he keeps the things that are necessary for Sherlock to function as a normal human being, as well as whatever current case or interest he needed.

“At any word or image or trigger, Sherlock will immediately be able to find the room he needs to acquire the relevant memories, then he puts them away again, locks the door and saves them for later. So, he knows when Lestrade texts him with an interesting case, he will first remind himself of who Lestrade is, then he can go to his ‘evidence’ room to look for related information, or that if he needs help he can go to his ‘useful acquaintances room’ to remember who he needs to talk to at that moment.

“He will _never_ forget you, it is impossible for him to truly lose a memory and forget, but he will deprioritise you put you away in a little room in the east wing. If and when he does that he will be able walk by you on the street without so much as a backward glance. I have seen what happens when Sherlock does not consider people, ‘priority’. They become accustomed to being an important part of Sherlock’s life, to having attention lavished on them, then they are stored in some dusty little place on the third floor and Sherlock will only unpack his memories of them when asked to. He will not do so independently. He is unable to.”

As confusing as the explanation was, John sort of got it. “Saying this from experience, are you?” John enquired, quite honestly.

“Did Sherlock ever mention to you he had a brother? Before you met me?” Mycroft gave, considerably.

John thought about it, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think so, so he shook his head.

“When not having to actively think of me, Sherlock forgets I exist.” His face holds a weight of sadness that John can barely fathom, “He can recall me in an instant, if he sees my face or hears my name, or if someone asks him about his siblings. But he will never be able to think ‘I wonder how my brother is doing, maybe I should send him a text.’ Or ‘maybe Mycroft is free for dinner and would appreciate company’. His thoughts about me will all be because of a series of triggers. I exist behind the locked room of people who he can call if he is arrested, or in the room of ‘people who have access to criminal files’. He doesn’t ever ‘wander the halls’ as it were.

“His thoughts about me will never be organic, and so I cease to exist. I think this is what gets him through the day, forgetting that people like my uncle and his previous dealers and other people who physically and mentally abused him exist. But in the process of protecting himself from the perils of emotion, he sacrificed the ability to muse, to create, to imagine.”

“What about the violin?” John asked, “Doesn’t he play that beautifully?”

Mycroft nodded, “He can access memories of ideal bow strokes and other people’s masterworks, he can play, but he cannot compose. Not any more at least,” Mycroft added, “He used to as a child. My greatest hope, more than anything, is that one day he will be able to again.”

If Sherlock’s mind was as complex as Mycroft made it sound, then composition seemed like an impossible dream, but it would be stunning to hear something that Sherlock wrote himself. After a moments contemplation, Mycroft continued.

“You, it seems, have been placed in the priority room. You are one of the thoughts he deems necessary to access every single day, one of the things he feels that he should never forget. Cherish that John.” Mycroft cautioned, “It won’t last forever.”

“Right,” John said, overwhelmed with how much he had been given to process. Both with Carl and Sherlock. “Thank you.”

“I am trusting you with my brother,” Mycroft menaced carefully, “Ensure that trust is not misguided.”

As Mycroft swept out of the room John had to take long moments to compose himself. There was a part of him that suspected he was actually the only sane person left in this place. What did Mycroft assume about him when he thought he could trust John to _look after_ Sherlock? John’s job in this place was to try and fix himself, not deal with other people’s messes.

He would have assumed that Mycroft was just another mentally unstable person, were it not for his obvious ability to procure highly sensitive documents at the drop of a hat. Whatever his job was, it was powerful enough that John really didn’t want to know.

Between Mycroft’s threats and the revelations of Carl’s murder, John had been left with a whole tangle of emotions that he would be unable to explain to Mike, and whilst he was grateful for Sherlock and his friendship, _those_ he was not grateful for. It took him many minutes, or maybe only a few really long seconds considering he wasn’t interrupted by Mrs Hudson, to compose himself, before he slowly hobbled to his room, feeling a part of his leg that wasn’t there anymore ache. Phantom feeling to compensate for the overfilling of emotion.

Rather than being in his room as John had expected, Sherlock was carefully leaning against the door in that artful way of his that seemed effortless, but John liked to imagine had been precisely calculated and practiced until he could lean with military precision.

“I assume my brother has explained the details of my condition.” Sherlock said, in response to John’s silence.

“He tried, I didn’t really get it, but if your mind works then it works. It’s not really my business.”

Sherlock hummed, clearly disbelieving at John’s statement, “Even if I am unable to daydream?”

“You can’t daydream?” John spat out in shock, before realising that it probably wasn’t a tactful thing to do.

“It’s a necessary part of the creative process apparently. The ability to link objects and people and other thoughts to non-connected memories creates new imagined memories. It is that, which I am currently unable to do. It’s not as though I’m unable to link thoughts together and come up with a new thought or solution, I wouldn’t be a very good detective if I couldn’t, but something wholly disconnected and unique? It just doesn’t happen.”

“Right,” John shuttered, “Right, bloody hell.”

“Does it shock you?”

John thought on that for a moment, “It’s weird, I’ll give you that.” He admitted, “But all of our brains are a mess aren’t they? That’s why we’re here rather than at home watching EastEnders.”

Sherlock pulled a face as though he’d swallowed a lemon. “If it’s a choice between being here with you and impaired, or ‘fixed’ and watching _EastEnders_ then I’d rather stay ‘broken’ thank you.”

“What if it was Jeremy Kyle?” John offered as a tongue-in-cheek alternative, but garnering no response, he realised that Sherlock didn’t actually get the reference.

“You definitely need to be educated in the ways of Jeremy Kyle.” He insisted, “It is your responsibility as a British citizen to make room in your mind palace for it. I’m sure you could use it as a way to explore the intricacies of human interactions.”

Sherlock seemed to contemplate this momentarily, though, John reflected, he wasn’t sure that Sherlock _could_ contemplate. “You shall have to catch me up.”

They continued walking for a moment, unsure as to why they were heading outside before recalling that Sherlock hid his patches there. After a moment of companionable silence, John found himself having to ask about something that Mycroft had told him.

“Apparently you’ve prioritised me so that you remember who I am.” He mentioned, failing to sound casual.

“Of course, John.” Sherlock said, as if such a thing should have been completely obvious, “I told you before; you’re important.”

“I guess if you’re stuck here you have to remember me.” It wasn’t anything to do with _John_ himself, he was sure, because John had never been important. It was almost certainly more about who was here in this shared place, the priority room had a list of people Sherlock had to keep in favour with. Something like that at least.

Sherlock gave a shake of his head in response, with an amused sort of smirk that made John think – slightly giddily – that maybe, just maybe, he was wrong.

“I am fairly confident, John.” Sherlock said, carefully smoothing the patch onto the crook of his elbow, “That this was anything but suicide.

Obviously the moment couldn’t last, they had a case to crack after all.

~*~

Molly sat with John the next day. She didn’t take her usual seat right next to him, but instead sat on the other side of the table.

“Hi,” he said softly, not wanting to scare her. She didn’t respond, she barely looked at him, but the inkling of a smile that pressed up against one cheek said enough.

~*~

“Jim,” John called, jogging up to meet the other boy, it was much later that evening, before lights out, and though he knew that Jim was mainly here to sleep, it would be a while before he actually made his way to his bed, “Look, thanks for speaking to Molly. It was really great of you.”

“No problem,” Jim said, with a soft sweet smile, “I’m glad it helped. How’s Sherlock getting on with proving Carl’s murder?”

It was like being plunged in ice. He could barely spit out the “What?” around the choking air.

“Carl’s murder, don’t be shy, I know he’s working on it. It’s been most entertaining.” Everything about Jim had shifted, his smile was no longer sweet; it was now harsh. A jagged line of teeth breaking his face in two like a shark.

“How did you know about Carl’s suicide? How did you know about _Carl_?”

“Come now; if I had wanted Carl’s death to seem completely like suicide it would have seemed completely like suicide Johnny-boy, I just love watching Sherlock play. Call it a Christmas present to him, though it seems rather belated now. Has he finished the puzzle yet?”

“What the hell are you on about?” John exclaimed, unable to absorb what he was hearing.

“Getting rid of Carl of course,” Jim stated, mirthfully, as if it was funny that John didn’t get it, “I needed you both to have no distractions. I _would_ say that you’re a distraction for him but, he’s so much more luminous when he’s around, so whatever keeps him with you serves my best interest.”

“What does Sherlock have to do with Carl?”

“I couldn’t have you fawning over that boy, far too pathetic. He wasn’t good enough for you when you can have Sherlock, and you being around Sherlock is far more interesting. You give him a leverage point, it makes him much more fun to play with. Something’s got to be fun for when I leave.”

“You’re insane.” John breathed.

Jim gestured to the building around him, in amusement, “You’re only just getting that now?”

“It’s simple really,” he continued, “I’ll get rid of anything that’s a distraction. I regret that my body is such a fragile vessel for the mind, so some of the petty distractions, such as sleep, are required, but it will have to do. You don’t have distractions, he doesn’t have distractions, I don’t have distractions, ‘Play up! Play up! And play the game!” he quoted in sing-song.

“What about Molly, what are you trying to do with her?”

“She really is a darling little mouse,” he crooned, “But I’m not interested in  her, she was just a convenient way to get Sherlock re-interested in me. It’s all about knowing the sticking points. Sherlock’s sticking point is you. Yours is your terrible loyalty to those you call friends, including dear little Molly. I knew she’d clam up as soon as she was given any affectionate attention, and now Sherlock recognises me as something because I’m attached in his head to _you_.”

“How on earth do you think you’ll get away with this?”

“Not sure yet,” he hummed thoughtfully, “I’ll find a way to take myself off the map, but I want to be creative with it. No point in being boring. Maybe even engineering my own suicide, that might be fun. Go underground and start running the business at full capacity, like Keyser Söze, that would be theatrical wouldn’t it? No one ever sees me and gets to live? Such a shame that Sherlock wouldn’t get that little reference, I always have loved spinning stories.”

“I’ll tell him, tell Mike. Sherlock’s got enough evidence to convince people it was murder. You’ll go straight to prison.”

“Please,” he commented with a roll of his eyes, “as if I was actually _there_.” He said the word ‘there’ with a deep distain, wrapping up John’s own thoughts about his hometown neatly, but discordantly, like looking into a mirror warped by fire. “I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”

“You’re making this up, you’re delusional. You’ve dreamed something and you think it’s real.”

Jim’s smile was conspiratorial, and in that moment John knew he had won. Whether he was telling the truth or spinning a lie, John would be unable to do anything. He couldn’t even be certain this conversation was actually happening.

“But what if it is real? We’re both delusional you and I.” he concluded, “Who would believe either of us?”

When John woke up the next day, he knew that the conversation was so vivid that it _must_ have been real. But at the same time he knew that it _couldn’t_ have been. Like so many of the strange dreams that he had, he was sure it meant something, something he would normally explain to someone else.

But despite this, John didn’t tell a soul.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We, dear reader, are working our way to the end of this tale now, though how long that will take I don't know. Speed has never been my strong point.


	8. Sarasvati

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our hero meets a seer, who gives visions of the future. And our hero understands the changes that have been made and the ones that are yet to come.

Phantom pain was a bitch. It was the irrational misfiring of damaged nerves sending signals from parts of the body that no longer existed, but at least when he had been getting severe and crippling phantom pain there were painkillers he could take which blocked the receptors in his head. When he suffered from phantom _itching_ , there was nothing he could do, there was no way that anyone would let him take opioid based medicines for an itch, and there was no actual physical place to relieve the itch. The urge to scratch thin air was frustrating.

He could have scratch the stump of his leg; work the nerves up so they thought the itch was gone, but the site was tender and he was far more likely to hurt himself and still not have relieved any of the itching. He settled instead for rubbing scar cream gently onto the damaged tissue.

It seemed ridiculous to put scar cream on, as getting rid of scaring seemed like an entirely aesthetic task. ‘Look at how beautifully scar free what’s left of my knee is, look at the smoothness of the skin.’ was not a sentence he could imagine himself uttering in the future, but apparently the reason for the scar treatment was actually so the tissues and tendons didn’t tighten up too much. If that happened, then he wouldn’t be able to use the joint of his knee when the prosthetic limb finally was attached to his leg.

He had already been measured for it, the cast of his leg being taken to create the cushioning. Apparently he was unlucky that he was growing, as it meant he would need a limb with an adjustable height to make up for any changes in his real leg’s length, and such prosthetics were apparently less stable than ones that had been created especially to fit with the stationary body of a fully grown adult.

There had been intermediate versions that weren’t specialised for John. He had used a range of them in the hospital under expert supervision to ascertain which muscle groups John would need to use and support in order to retain a full scope of movement. They had been awkward and clunky, and they rubbed in the wrong places, but they had been better than not having one at all. He had to be happy about that at least, more or less.

It did however highlight the lack of movement he had available to him when he was at home. He didn’t need anything to remind him of how badly he was trapped inside his own house, inside his own body, at the moment. He even though he had a prosthetic in the home he didn’t really use it. This was mostly because he didn’t know where his mother put it during the day.

He was certain that she was hiding it, but how exactly she was doing that he wasn’t sure. Their house wasn’t exactly grandiose, but without being able to move around easily, it would have been a simple enough task to keep him from finding it. She would only give it to him when they left the house together, which was not very often. She seemed unable to make herself inflict her son on the polite society of the outside world.

Once he got the real prosthetic, the one that would remain John’s for however long he fit into it, he would need to take time to get used to it. He was due to take it home within the next couple of days, then the process of learning to walk again would start up intensively. Even his good leg, the one that hadn’t sustained much damage at all, was suffering from the effects of sitting around all day.

He was doing all the exercises he could in the secrecy of his room, but there was only so much that he could do without assistance, and he certainly wasn’t getting any of that. His mother seemed to be entertaining the delusion that if she didn’t look at him, the ‘accident’ hadn’t happened.

She always had been good at looking away.

Within the week, the doctor had said, John would get an appointment to show him how to wear it and how to take care of it on his own. He would continue to go back for physical therapy sessions. It wasn’t anticipated that he would be able to use it on his own yet, but it was the first taste of freedom he had gotten in a while.

“Happy Birthday to me.” John said bitterly into the silence of his room. The news had been as close to a present as he was ever going to get.

There was little fanfare on his birthday. There had never been _huge_ celebrations on birthdays; John’s mother saw the practice as somewhat pagan - to celebrate your own birth as if it was your own doing, rather than through God’s will and grace.

However, celebrating the life you had been given _by_ god was acceptable, so they had celebrated, as they celebrated all things, with food and prayer. They were thankful of the bounty they received, the bounty of their lives and the bounty of life in general. As a little kid he had even had birthday parties, but after Carl there had been no friends to have celebrations with, so such occasions had reverted back to family time.

This year there wasn’t even that. Family time seemed like a thing of the past, as though the importance of family was only something to be paraded before God, rather than being something that was actually enjoyed for enjoyments sake. Now that there were _other_ issues to deal with, the false joy surrounding a birthday was put on the back burner. It would be something that they might pretend to care about in future years. If John ever made it to another Birthday. There were times when he would be underestimating the situation to say that he _really_ didn’t want to.

But he would get the specially fitted leg in a couple of days, and after that he could learn to walk again, and even though they seemed like such little things, they would be the goals he would follow. They were the little things that made him carry on living. Even if it felt difficult and possibly even demeaning at times to take his first steps like a toddler, he would do it. After that he would learn to walk on his own again. Then after that he would learn to type again. Then he would steal a computer and look up ways to get the hell out of this town. Little goals. Little steps.

So it wasn’t likely that the last few parts would happen, because, if John was honest with himself, he didn’t really have the mental capacity or strength of will to do something like that again; he had made a plan to get out once before, it had buckled under. He really didn’t have the strength left to build a new one anymore, but he could pretend for a little while that it was still happening. That despite it all he could get out and have a normal life eventually. Once upon a time.

But for now he was just waiting for the next thing that kept him going.

~*~

“Now, you may find it strange to walk around in, but the work we’ve been doing will have built up enough muscle strength that you can continue these exercises at home to speed up your recovery.” The physiotherapist explained, “Keep a track of the time per day you have it on an the amount you are walking - if you don’t regulate yourself, you’re likely to cause damage in the first couple of weeks. After a short while your body will get used to the strains being placed on different muscle groups and you should be able to start using it more easily.”

John nodded, taking the pre-offered pamphlet, which explained the guidelines for daily usage, and the number of hours he could spend with the prosthetic limb on per day without causing stress.

“Obviously there are housekeeping rules - about how you clean the limb, and how you store it - which are included in there. I can always assist you with them if needs be.” She pulled towards her a shiny box, and although it really wasn’t that special, John did feel a little like he was getting a birthday present finally. “I’m going to show you how all the straps will fit on your leg, it’ll be a little different to the generic one that you’ve been using because of the vacuform. If you could come and slide into this chair over here.” She invited patting the space next to her.

John wheeled across the room from where he had been sitting with his father. His mother was far too busy today to take him. There some church fete preparations that she needed to make apparently and she had wanted to change the appointment ‘til later; she was reluctant to give John’s father any responsibility, but eventually she conceded that sooner was better than later.

“Put your knee up here, John.” She said pointing to the little stand. “Now this is probably going to require assistance for a while in order to pull the straps tight, it requires a little flexibility to get the angle right yourself, and you haven’t gotten that yet I suspect.”

She opened the box, and there in all it’s glory was the prosthetic limb, the end looked kind of like a robot version of John’s foot white plastic over metal like some kind of sci-fi drama, and the top was a sort of cup where his leg would go, but the actual joints and ‘shin’ he supposed were all cool steel-coloured alloys, shiny and new. A singular tube served as the link between his knee and his ankle, with several rivets down the side to allow the height to be adjusted as John grew.

Even though the situation was bad and the reasons behind getting this were soul-destroying, he took from the situation the positive of ‘at least it looks cool.’ Maybe that was just John’s own delirium making him think about the cyborgs in Treasure Planet, but he held onto that strange little initial thought. If he was going to set himself small positive goals to keep his life ticking over, then it made sense that he should hang onto small little positives to keep his happiness ticking over, as rusted and depreciated as it was.

The therapist invited his dad to come and watch the way to put the leg on so that he could help John for the first few weeks. Or at least until he got used to it, but in his own head John knew that he would be doing it for himself. He paid as much attention as he could, and willed his brain to remember that this was important information. This was to be retained, not lost along with countless other bits of information. Right over left, this bit tucks out of the way, you pull this part really tight.

He would remember it eventually it would be stored through repetition. He had the booklet. He would have to be fine. There would be no help if he didn’t do it for himself.

Right over left.

He was happy to be able to walk to the car. He had to lean heavily on his real leg, it was more like using a crutch, but despite the weight, he was feeling lighter than he had in a long time. He could hobble along without falling flat on his face. It was good. He all but fell onto the car door, but he had made it, and more importantly he had made it on his own.

That joy lasted until he got home. His mother had just gotten back and was waiting for the report from his father.

“The prosthetic was ready, the doctor said that he needs to practice on it for a set number of hours per day, and not too much or he could overwork the muscles in his leg.”

John was please and somewhat astonished that his father had been paying that much attention. It was a surprise for him to act as though he cared what was going on, and he had to hide the smile that was threatening to engulf his face, as his mother had gotten the look which clearly said she was not happy about that turn of events.

“John, remove it now.” She said, unable to say the word ‘leg’ or ‘prosthetic’, it was too much for her to handle. He knew better than to expect her to be able to call it what it really was.

“I haven’t had it on too long mum.” He insisted, “I can still wear it for a little while longer today.”

“That wasn’t a question, John” she said, “You’re too weak of spirit to go through such physical trials yet. You must save your soul first.” She insisted.

He had never been as scared of his mother as he was in that moment - he saw something in her so far removed from the maternal that he thought she might strike him. His father had seen something too, because the look on his face was not one of casual dismissal or acceptance as it normally was, but one of severe worry.

He turned to his father, thinking perhaps, for the first time in his life, John might actually be spared the trauma of whatever his mother had planned for him; that he might be able to continue on the routine the physical therapist set, but he could see already that his father was not going to say anything further about the matter than he had already said.

It was the same as John’s psychotherapy; that was also another area where his mother thought she knew the best for him, and what was best was the religion she had adopted so fiercely. Never mind that no physical wounds would heal just because a person prayed for them to be healed. If they healed then they did so with time and therapy, if they didn’t heal it was because the body couldn’t heal them. It had little to do with the state of their soul.

Weak of spirit his mother called him. He wasn’t sure as to what weakness she was referring, but it was probably to do with sexuality, or perhaps a lack of faith, or, more recently, the on-going mental illness and depression that he was suffering with. Whatever it was, she had decided that it made him unable to use the prosthetic leg. Until his spirit was strong, there was no way his body could have strength. It should have obvious that it was a ridiculous notion, but so was every other idea his mother spouted. In the end he had no way to fight against it and no one who would care enough to fight for him on the matter.

He sat on the sofa and slowly undid the straps, feeling as though he was giving away his only chance to regain a normal life, and he placed it carefully in the box he had been provided for storage.

“You will be allowed to use this only when you are of a sound constitution, John.” His mother insisted, taking it away from him and bringing back over the wheelchair. “Now, you need to go to your room. I’m sure in all the excitement of the day you haven’t had a chance to say all of your prayers.”

That was true - not that he said his prayers all that often anyway. John wasn’t one for praying if he could help it. In fact if he could actively avoid the matter then he would be happy. He hated being reminded of the things he shouldn’t want and the things that he wanted but wasn’t allowed to have, and yet he had to actively think on them and ask for some kind of divine resolve in order to ‘be healed’. Like God was just some big Santa Claus type character waiting to grant wishes to the good boys and girls.

It didn’t help that his mother insisted he had to keep his old room, the one upstairs, because when he was able to walk again he would need to move back upstairs and it would have been a waste of time to move the furniture around. He was reduced to shuffling up the steps one by one and then leaning carefully on the doors and walls to make his way to his own room, which was one beyond his sister’s.

What happened that day, instead of carefully making his way to his own room, he found that her door wasn’t on the latch and instead pushed it open, causing him to fall to the ground. Too surprised to do anything but lie there in shock.

He wasn’t certain about what he saw, although he could smell it. The smoke, sweet and unusual, unless he was very much mistaken, wasn’t cigarette smoke. There was a small haze of it being passed on in the breath of the girl who was sitting in Harry’s lap, taking deep lungfuls of smoke that were then passed back and forth interspersed with heavily lip glossed kisses. He hadn’t seen a girl naked in real life, nor had he ever wanted to, but the stranger’s topless state was hard to ignore.

All of this he saw only in an instant, as he stumbled backwards from the door, scrambling across the floor as quickly as he could on hands and knees. Harry had spat something harshly to the girl who had been tipped off her lap and was now sprawled on her bed and shut the door behind her.

“Get up, Gimp.”  She said, addressing John as though he barely merited the breaths she had spared on the sentence. When he didn’t move the face became even more twisted in anger, reaching down to grab onto his shirt collar, pulling him upwards. “Get the fuck up,” She hissed, barely more than a whisper and definitely not enough for his mother to hear or react to. Not that she would have ever believe it.

“You saw nothing.” She said, pushing him up against the railing, flashbacks were running behind his eyes. Not again, not the river, he would drown this time. He would die, he was back there, he could smell it.

John said nothing. What could he say? There was nothing that was running through his mind except abject panic.

“Do you understand me?” she hissed, he heard it, but his mind didn’t process. He could vaguely smell continued burning, something in her hands was still on fire, but he barely registered it.

“Answer me!” she demanded, pressing the burning end of the joint up against his collarbone. Whatever was in the drugs had caused her psychotic paranoia, though he didn’t justify her actions to himself until much later. “Fucking speak.”

“I saw nothing.” John breathed, trying not to scream through the pain. The terrible violence serving as a knife through the cloud of confusion that was swirling in his head. He still couldn’t process everything, but at least he knew he had to give an answer. “Nothing happened.”

“Get the fuck out of here.” She spat.

He stumbled towards the bathroom, needing cold water on his chest immediately. He took his shirt off and clambered, half dressed, into the bathtub. Turning the temperature on the shower down as low as he could, he held the stream of water steadily as he was able against himself. Hoping to numb the pain that was radiating out. She hadn’t held it to his skin for long, but it had been long enough to create an angry red mark that would scab over and probably scar.

Despite how uncomfortably numb it was making his whole body, he knew staying under the frigid water was better than the burning pain that he would experience as soon as he turned it off.

There were some basic burn creams in the first aid kit in the bathroom. Seemingly his mother did not expect him to just pray actual injuries away, even if fixing any other illness was about ‘strength of spirit’.

He sat in the shower for a long time, how many minutes he lost in there he wasn’t sure, but no one seemed to notice. He knew his mother would not check up on him, telling him to sit quietly in his room and pray was just another way of telling him to get out of her sight, which seemed to be the most important thing to her, after that it didn’t really matter what he was doing, except when she decided it did.

Everything was numb, from the skin to the core, and he knew it was more than just the water making it happen.

He stayed there as long as he could manage before he feared that he would start suffering more from the cold than he would from the perfectly circular burn. He stumbled out of the bathtub, shivering in the cold and weighed down by the mass of water in his jeans. He shucked them off, grabbing a towel to wrap them in and another to wrap around his waist so that he could make it to his room without leaving a trail of water. He didn’t want anyone to notice he’d been out of his room, and he certainly didn’t want to give anyone a reason to investigate.

It was strange the ways he tried to survive.

He felt as though he should have been saddened to be left alone like he always was and scared that no one would ever care about him or come to see him, even just to make sure that he was getting on alright, but he wasn’t. Despite John’s desperation for someone _somewhere_ to give a crap about him, he dreaded the thought of someone checking up on him more. He supposed it was because he knew it would have nothing to do with care, and all to do with control. It would be about the desire to stop him doing something that would be an embarrassment to the public image of the family or an affront to nature.

He stole the burn cream and a burn patch from the medical cabinet and carefully applied it in the mirror, trying to balance and focus on the injury at the same time was a little complicated, but he managed it eventually, before picking up all of his things and making his way towards his own room, finally, making sure that he didn’t lean on Harry’s door this time around.

He collapsed onto his bed, silently whispering prayers. Catholic guilt was a wonderful motivator, even if he didn’t believe that anyone would care about him and what he did on a cosmic level, he still seemed to find it important to pretend that he did. He couldn’t lie to his mother about something like prayer either. He hadn’t really been able to lie to her directly about anything and when that inevitable moment came where she turned around and asked ‘have you said your prayers for the day?’, he knew he had to be able to answer yes, and he would only be able to answer yes if he had actually done them.

He tried to let the actual words wash over him. The words were always slightly sickening, talking about fruits of the womb and always being bad people and the fact that John despite the things that had happened to him was the one who had to ask for forgiveness. Prayer told him that God didn’t owe John one single apology, and yet to him it seemed as though there was nothing that needed apologising for more than his shambles of a life. He felt as though the reason he prayed now was so that he wasn’t focused on the inner workings of his own mind. It was some form of meditation to pray. It just blanked out everything else whilst the words were formed automatically by unthinking lips.

The ways that the words actually were filled with meaning were lost on him, and so he couldn’t care about them. He kept on this path for a long time. The longer he said those simple recitations, the longer he could go without thinking about his failing brain, or his failing school work, or his broken family, or his broken life. If he meditated at least he had another way to cope.

He didn’t think that prayer worked in the traditional sense; there was no one listening to answer, but at least he had been able to turn it into a flimsy version of a coping mechanism. It was probably not as good as real meditation, because he hadn’t actually been taught how to do that. In fact, if he had suggested meditation in a yogatic, or Buddhist sense to his mother she probably would have tried to exorcise him.

It was also a mild distraction from the returned throb in his chest, one that would ache terribly over the next couple of days, despite the careful attention he had applied to it.

Some indeterminate time later, there was the polite little gong of the dinner bell, calling them down for food and prayer. Even though dinner was always on the table at six o’clock sharp, so he should have realised it was coming, he just hadn’t noticed the time pass by. Dinner at six was another one of those strict routines that his mother felt the need to adhere to no matter what. He sat up slowly, wondering how long he could take getting downstairs without it being commented upon. Probably not that long, all told.

He put some dry clothes back on, he hadn’t been able to expend the effort needed to get dressed when he had reached his room, and gently made his way onto the landing. He had heard the other doors open and close upstairs, so he knew that Harry would already be at the table.

He had gotten to the top of the stairs and had seen his mother standing there at the bottom looking like a picture out of a 1950s perfect housewives catalogue. Harriet, for she was only called Harry outside of the home, was standing there, looking like the matching perfect daughter to his mother’s perfect housewife. The girl that Harry had been smoking with however did not look as pristine; she looked just like a normal girl. Reasonably dressed and uncaring of the formalities of a home that she couldn’t begin to comprehend.

“This is Clara,” Harriet introduced politely, “She’s a friend from our bible study group. We were just discussing the verses that Father Sebastian had focused on earlier. I really feel that he understands the importance of our religion in an ever changing world.” She spouted. The bullshit she came up with was perfectly suited to focus on their mother’s vision of the perfect ‘apple pie’ life. She even managed to scrape up a coy blush. His mother put together a wide grin at the thought of it, and demurely shook Clara’s hand in the way that proper ladies were supposed to.

He could see his mother’s dream like a film, Harry would fall in chaste virginal love with a good religious boy and they would consummate their marriage only so that they could have a few children who could also be brought up in a wholesome religious environment. Harriet’s ‘gushing’ over the pastor would be seen only as Harriet realising what good boys looked like and showing some basic, but innocent attraction towards one to reemphasise her own perfect heteronormativity.

He didn’t begrudge people a heteronormative life; he thought people should be free to do what they wanted to do, but when people only went along with it to do what was expected seemed wrong. When his sister felt the need to emphasise her own ‘normality’ by pretending to be interested in someone else, by hiding her relationship with another girl, by threatening violence on anyone who might make a noise about it, that was the point where he had to say that there was something profoundly and deeply disturbed permeating their world. That was the line beyond which he couldn’t understand. Why would someone would put so much effort into the continued lie, as though the only thing that mattered was the story?

But then he looked at himself, looked at the life which he was leading the damage - physical, emotional, mental - that he was suffering and the hurdles that he would never now overcome as a result of being seen as ‘not normal’ by his family and peers, and he could start to understand. Would he have given up who he truly was just to ensure that people didn’t hurt him? He would have been lying to have said no. It would have been the wrong choice, of course; it would have been a selfish and dangerous one, but it was one that he might well have made given the opportunity.

Because despite his sister’s own insanity, despite her own deviation from the ‘ideal’ she was unharmed. She would be going to university to study theology come September and she would be still loved by their mother. She wouldn’t be branded a screw-up head-case like John was. Like everyone saw him. She would lie, because she had seen the alternative, and unsurprisingly, she didn’t like it very much.

She looked fresh as a daisy, she would forever come up smelling of roses, and the look his mother sent to him was clear ‘why can’t you be normal, John. Look how good your life can be if you only let God heal your illness’.

Harry was sending a very difficult but equally meaningful look to John, this one read ‘you say a word, and you are dead’. It wasn’t figurative. He was pretty certain that she meant it, and he was wrong to think that despite the love and affection that was paid to her relative to the attention that John received, that she hadn’t been deeply screwed up by their upbringing too.

“Hurry up, John.” His mother said, no sympathy or care translating into the tone, “You’re making everyone wait.”

Yup. Happy fucking birthday.

~*~

“Morning, John.” Jim chirped with a soft smile.

“Good morning,” John replied, trying not to let his unease show, “How are you?”  It wasn’t Jim’s fault that John’s subconscious didn’t like him much, and he had been nothing but pleasant to John, especially after the incident with Molly.

He treated John like a mix between a trusted friend and older brother, it was strange to be sort of looked up to, and just because John had projected his anxieties onto Jim after one strange dream, it didn’t mean that he deserved to be ignored. Jim was a sweet kid, even though he was probably John’s age, and he certainty needed a friend. He had begun to join John and Molly at the lunch table, with an intermediary force, and the addition of some more one on one therapy for Molly; the three had struck up a careful friendship again.

But still, John couldn’t help the thrill of terror that went through him every time he saw the boy. Every time he was forced to remind himself that the conversation he had had with Jim wasn’t real. He thought of mentioning it to Mike at one point, but he knew it was just a symptom of his anxiety over Carl’s death, and he was dealing with that the best that he could, it was the focus of all of his recovery at the moment.

“Pretty good,” Jim answered, “but my sleeping hasn’t been getting better. They’re suggesting that I go for a more extended stay to get to the root of my problems rather than just fixing the insomnia.” He said, the sadness on his face matching perfectly with the disappointment radiating through his words.

“That’s a shame, but it’s better to try and get it fixed right?”

“I really don’t want to stay here.” Jim admitted, sounding scared, “I don’t like being away from my school and my friends. I don’t want to miss anymore lessons than I already do.”

“You could take lessons here. You know people come in to tutor all the time.” John reminded, “Me and Sherlock get lessons for our A-levels. I’m Mike could set you up with tutors from your school.”

“But it’s not the same really,” Jim insisted, “Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s important, and I do like the people here, but I’ve known the people on the outside forever. They’re my network, they know me. Do you get what I mean?”

John shrugged, trying for sympathy, but there was little he could actually sympathise with. His network had been much stronger here than it had ever been in his little hometown, and he certainly didn’t think he could have said anyone out there would have _known_ him. The only people who ‘knew’ him had messed him up to the point of near homicide.

“I’m fed up of it,” Jim said, emotions bleeding through, “I _know_ nothing will happen to me when I sleep, it’s just so hard. Which is stupid, because it shouldn’t be hard. It’s not hard for everyone else.”

“Don’t beat yourself up.” John insisted. “It’s hard, that’s fact. It’s not going to be any less hard just because for some people it’s easy. I could hardly run a marathon, but for some people that’s easy.”

“That’s not the same thing.” Jim said, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, a gesture that John recognised as willing the tears back.

“That’s exactly the same thing. You just have to remind yourself of it.” John told him, wanting to support his friend through the pain, but not certain of how he could actually help. Slinging a comforting arm over his shoulder seemed like it would be a good gesture, but he knew from his experience here that sometimes a single touch was a violent as a punch to the wrong person.

Jim gave a single half-hearted laugh, and John could almost hear the eye-roll. “You’ve been talking to Mike too much; you’re starting to sound like him.”

“Well Mike’s a good person to listen to. You should take his advice.”

“His advice or your advice?”

“Are they any different?

“No.” Jim admitted with a wry grin.

“Then follow whoever’s.”

The door next to them opened, “Jim? You can come in now.” Mike said softly, having put away John’s notes for the day.

“See you later.” Jim said with a little wave, leaving John to his thoughts of the session he had just finished with Mike.

He had never spoken of the abuse from his sister to anyone before, despite the scars, he had sort of forgotten it in the wake of all the other things that happened to him, but as he had had thought about Mycroft and how much he was willing to do to help Sherlock, he started thinking of his own sister and how little she had been willing to do to protect him. How far she had gone to protect herself instead. Despite Sherlock’s distain for his brother, and his apparent inability to remember his existence unless required to, Mycroft still would have used every leverage in his power, everything that he had to ensure that his kin was safe.

John was only now processing how little of that he had had in his own life. Wanting to protect those who were related to you was _normal._ The kind of apathy and distain he had spent his life enduring was the thing that was abnormal. He had known that the violence and threats were wrong, but he hadn’t twigged that families didn’t actively ignore each other, and ignore each other’s problems.

He wasn’t stupid, or particularly naïve, it was simply all he had known. It was only coming here that had shown him what normality looked like, what safe and sane looked like. Though John appreciated the hint of irony that came with such a sentiment. It was a hint of irony he was willing to accept. He had spent much of his life battling the ironic twists and turns that were thrown his way for no particular reason other than he existed.

He just didn’t particularly care for them. It made him think too much about there being some plan for him. Those funny little coincidence started weighing on him in combination with his mother’s words about punishments enacted from God when people didn’t follow his set plan.

But despite it all, the institute didn’t feel much like a punishment. It felt like sanctuary. If this was God’s way of saying, ‘yup, this is what real decent human beings act like’, then he was glad at least for the opportunity to witness the thing first hand.

Molly was in the women-only support group meeting, and Sherlock in not too long had his own one-on-one therapy session. It being the weekend John didn’t really have much work to do for school, even though he probably should have been studying, considering that he was trying to do all of his hardest exams in one go, in only a couple of months. But he had no new assignments, and he felt as though the work that he had completed so far he had understood.

It was a nice thing. To feel like he understood something for a change, understanding had happened so slowly. Then one day John finally felt like he had understood something on the first try, which started happening again and again and he was forced to confront the fact that the accident hadn’t made him stupid; it had just made learning difficult. Just because something was difficult it didn’t mean it was impossible, and now that he was getting real help, a real tutor, and occasional physical check-ups to help with the scar-tissue side of his problems, he was actually making progress.

He still had to work his socks off of course. He still had to do all the work he was set plus much more, with constant studying on the side, to ensure that nothing that he had learnt escaped, but it wasn’t that much of a sacrifice. He had nothing else he needed to do, besides the small garden that he kept and the erratic sleeping hours brought on my Sherlock’s incessant need to solve cases. He had to consider that those weren’t as time consuming as the other extra curricular activities that other people did whilst still managing the same workload.

Because, as the tutor rightly said, other people did their entire set of A-levels in one year. For the first time in his life, his mind provided him with the strength to say; ‘I’m just as good as them. I can do this’. It wasn’t the most grandiose statement of self-belief that had ever been uttered, he was sure that people had more belief in themselves in their little fingers, but he could start to say those words and still think; yes, I can.

He could do this.

~*~

It was a few weeks later when Sherlock came to him. Striding in the purposeful way he did, in order to speak about Carl’s case directly. Sherlock’s involvement had somewhat dropped in during the lead up to the January exams; he seemed to understand that John needed his focus to solely be on the AS. It was an act of kindness and sympathy that Sherlock still pretended he didn’t possess, despite clear evidence that he still held some of those caring qualities that made him even that slightest bit human.

But now that the exams were over with and the results wouldn’t come out until the beginning of March, which was more than a month away, Sherlock’s previous ban on cases had been, quite reasonably, lifted. John should have been prepared for it, but having spent so much time with Sherlock, studying and talking about school work and, for want of a better word, _chatting_ about life, Sherlock’s obsessive nature over the unsolved puzzle had been partially hidden from view.

“John, I’ve managed to go through the body of evidence and it’s now clear to me that Carl’s death was anything but suicide. I suspect it to be full premeditated homicide, though a domestic violence incident is still possible, but that depends on whether the alibis check out for those unlikely few suspects.”

John was knocked out of shape by the sudden news from his friend. He had known, of course he had known, that Sherlock didn’t exactly do social airs and graces, but this was a little more callous than that. Despite Sherlock having been told many times, by John as well as others, that people had to have _died_ for the cases to exist, and so to consider those left behind, those grieving, the potential lost, Sherlock was as blunt as ever. He didn’t remember things people told him unless they were pertinent to a case, and caring about people would not help save them, or avenge them.

Of course John had extrapolated Sherlock’s whole line of reasoning through one swish of movement John thought better suited to a Victorian cape, than the shirt and trousers that the amateur detective liked to wear. The last threads of frost and snow were hanging on with a vengeance, and John himself was outside thinking about how the soil would need to be tended to soon in order to made sure the winter vegetables he and Molly had planted didn’t die from a lack of sunlight.

“Right,” he eventually replied, slow and even, “Right. Fancy cluing me in?” He asked.

Sherlock almost hesitated; he had probably finally accessed those memories about John, which had interpreted the expression on John’s face as mildly pissed off. He tilted his head slightly, the eyes narrowing just a fraction in concentration, before dismissing whatever train of though he had been on, and running through his deductions.

“You already saw that Carl had been a good swimmer,” Sherlock reminded John, waiting for his small nod to continue, “Well I’ve managed to match the patterns of bruising across his body to different dates. There are some insignificant ones, far too old to be related to his death, probably sports injuries or quite possibly domestic violence committed by the father.”

“Sherlock.” John berated his friend for the overtly casual way he addressed such a serious issue.

“My apologies,” he acquiesced, before continuing his spiel. “Anyway, the older antemortem injuries could be dismissed immediately. I took the photographs and dismissed any bruises that were old or fading, or post mortem. Which is more difficult than you might think when I have no way of accessing the body. Anyway, removing such injuries confirmed my suspicions, aside from bruising around the face, wrists and ankles, most probably from getting beaten into submission and thrown over the edge, there’s very little damage, not even enough damage to have knocked him unconscious. He should have struggled, swam away, but he didn’t manage it. He was dead, he had _drowned_ , before he even had the chance to sustain damage from the rocks or riverbed. However there were signs of muscle cramping, deep tissue damage going beyond rigor mortis. Damage from extreme muscle fatigue and overuse, clear signs that he had suffered a fit. It’s been hard to collect data without the actual cadaver to hand, but I’ve got a friend, who works at the mortuary,

“Now it’s possible that a sufficiently hard blow to the head could emulate the same symptoms of a fit, but as I had carefully established, he had not been beaten sufficiently hard at the time of his death to warrant such internal brain haemorrhaging.”

Sherlock gave the standard pause in his speech, the one he gave when he wanted John to confirm that he got it and that he was keeping up, that nothing else needed repeating in order for him to be understood. John didn’t particularly feel like praising Sherlock for his deductive capabilities today. This was not the same as any other case; despite it all he could not just detach his brain from seeing Carl as more than a stranger, as more than just an impassive body to be figured out. He didn’t know if he could convey all that meaning into one singular look, but he would try his hardest, and it seemed, if nothing else, that Sherlock understood that much.

“So I had to look for another cause of the seizure, despite their damage and the buffeting from the water, the samples I could get from his clothes told a different story. He had not gotten enough physical injuries perimortem or antemortem to have suffered death, or incapacitation which would have rendered him unable to save himself. Whoever drugged him wanted it to be kept quiet. A simple overdose before throwing the body into the river would have had a much more immediate effect, but any needle punctures, any traces of common narcotics could have been a sign of foul play that the authorities would have had to consider further. When they get interested, the police department are remarkably good at tracking the movement of drugs across such a small town, so it had to be something special, something off the list.”

“Which was?” John asked, not caring for the dramatic slow reveal that normally ramped up the tension in a case like this.

“From samples of his clothes from the day of his death there show on his skin hints of clostridium botulinum.” Sherlock answered straightforwardly, seemly surprised by John’s less than enthusiastic response. “A surprisingly common neurotoxin, but not easy to come by in it’s purest form, unless of course one has access to the store cupboard of a plastic surgeon. It’s commonly used at a very low dosage for Botox injections for the rich and aging. In high doses it can be applied topically, and it does the same thing to the rest of the body that it does to the forehead; it stops the muscles from working. It would have explained the fit perfectly, as well as a lack of puncture marks or signs of forced feeding of drugs.”

“So someone avoids beating him up more than a few blows,” John summarised, “which could have easily been dismissed as caused by his abusive father or the actual fall. He was covered in a drug that no-one would bother looking for, and then dropped in the river so that he could drown without it looking like a murder.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock said, enjoying the flourish of the final conclusion John gave.

John sat still, ticking the implications of it all over in his head. The trouble someone would have gone to in order to cover his or her own tracks seemed insane. Why would they have cared so much about one singular boy?

“Any theory as to why someone went to the effort? He was a twat, sure, but not enough for a carefully planned pre-meditated murder.”

Sherlock looked slightly uncomfortable, as if he was trying desperately to school his emotions, which, in truth, he probably was.

“There’s no data I can gather at this moment in time as to suspect or motive.” He said calmly, like a recorded track; carefully rehearsed. “I shall pass the information on that I have to Lestrade, then I will await further data.”

John pressed his lips together as tightly as he was able. He had to stop himself from asking why Sherlock was not having a breakdown, or at least a minor hissy fit. He seemed, if anything, completely reasonable. It was as though he understood the limitations that were imposed upon him, and was happy to work around them, even when John _knew_ that to be far from the truth.

“Huh,” he eventually said, trying to ensure his surprise didn’t seem too condescending, “You’re…”

“I’m what?” Sherlock asked, clenching his fists tightly, making his already pale skin look like marble with the tension.

“You’re getting better.” He complimented, or at least he hoped that Sherlock would take it as a compliment.

The returned smile was more like a grimace, tight and pained, but if Sherlock was learning to control the irrational bouts of psychosis in the face of adversity, then John could only conclude that that was a good thing. Sherlock on the other hand didn’t seem all that happy to be expending the effort on it.

“Thanks to you, John.” He said swiftly, dismissively. “Come on then. There are plenty of other cases that we could be getting on with.”

Part of his brain, the still broken part, the probably always broken part, gleefully supplied John with the images of Jim from his stubborn nightmare. That part wanted to spit out ‘I have a suspect’, but he knew that it was ridiculous. Jim was just another kid, like the rest of them. Jim was just a guy trying to learn how to sleep again, living between a school to help him carry on a normal life and institution that taught him how to be normal. In so much that anyone was ‘normal’ or should be considered normal.

John needed to forget that dream, forget that there was ever anything about Jim that was less than normal, because Jim was, for all intents and purposes, the most normal one of all of them.

~*~

What felt like an eternity had passed before the exam results from January came out. They were on the 7th of March, and in between the exams and their results he and Sherlock worked their merry way through the practical assessments of their respective courses, half a year’s worth of intense A-level curriculum, a massive amount of psychotherapy and more than a little bit of weird tension that John wasn’t quite brave enough to put a name to yet.

The results came in pretty brown envelopes privately addressed, and in the terrified silence of his room eventually he forced himself to open them after what felt like at least an hour of staring at his own name, trying not to resort to arson and burn it before he had a chance to disappoint himself. With eyes close and deep breaths he pulled the single sheet of paper out, willing himself to open his eyes, because if he kept them closed he knew he could hide the truth from himself for just a little while longer.

The first thing he saw through one barely opened eyelid was an A.

His eyes flew open as he took in his results. Eight exams and all of them, every single bloody last one of them was an A. He thought he was going to faint from the sheer joy of it. Or be sick. Although he knew there was a choking hazard involved in the combination of the two.

After all that joy was the terrible crash. He managed it. _He,_ though broken in the head and quite possibly incurably insane, still could pull it together enough for those few weeks. He was not going to pretend like he hadn’t had to work every hour god sent to get there, but he could do it. He was able. He had the determination to be able to pull this possibly demented task off.

He had managed to do something for himself for once, because even if he believed that Sherlock was the one who had the brains in their friendship, he and only he was able to actually put pen to paper in that exam. That he had managed it meant that he wasn’t stupid. It didn’t come naturally, but it was confirmation of the thing he had allowed himself to suspect.

He didn’t know if he would have thought the same if he didn’t get the perfect grades in the end, if he hadn’t managed to pass. Would he still have felt the same way about himself? Would he have felt as though he was improving and gaining a strength of mind he had been missing for so long?

Strange as it might have been to admit to himself; he was sure the answer was yes, because he had _tried._ He could have blamed his past problems and called them a reason to not even try, but he tried, and he had succeeded.

He had not succeeded on his own; he knew he couldn’t claim that. There was nothing that could have let him even approach this level of self assurance, if he hadn’t been here amongst people who taught him that it was okay to fail. They taught him that it was not a failure of his whole life to attempt something and not be perfect at it. That it was better to try and to not succeed, than never try. It was not the easiest path to trek; so much less effort and support was required to never try, but he had been given that support, that help, that guidance, and he had come to believe in the value of trying.

It was more of an achievement than the A at the end, and he was glad that he was mentally sound enough to realise it.

As he stared at the piece of paper until the words started to blur into nothingness, he eventually twigged that if he had opened his results, then Sherlock undoubtedly would have as well. The other boy was not going to have the same problem opening the letter as John; for Sherlock facts were facts and they wouldn’t be changed whether they were viewed or not. He probably already knew exactly what his results were. He would have committed the exam paper to memory and found the ideal answers from any catalogue of ideal past paper answers and examiners reports. If he had cared enough about the results to waste brain time on them.

John liked to think that Sherlock cared, he might not have needed to work particularly hard in order to pass his subjects, but he always seemed to enjoy them when they were happening. He liked the intricacies of chemical theory, especially the biochemistry. Though that might have just been Sherlock’s own fascination with how the drugs he had taken interacted with his brain. He was probably coming up with a way he could continue to use without creating any lasting damage to the major processing centres.

John hoped that there was no logical answer to his friend’s desire. He knew Sherlock’s drug related past full well, he was fairly candid about the actual usage even if not the ins and outs of what actually happened to him during that dark period, but it was mostly the principal of the thing. He didn’t like the thought of Sherlock being some hollowed out junkie, wasting the incredible talents he was born with for the high of not having to think about human life for a while. Filling the moments of boredom between cases with stimulating poison. It was all so bohemian in a way that fitted Sherlock, but the bohemians all dropped dead of overdoses by the time they were forty or lived long enough to see their brains rot to nothingness. Neither of those options sat well with John.

He had haunting images of an older Sherlock, knowing John, but not realising his surroundings, being unable to make the fog clear long enough for the brilliance of that brain to shine through. The bare moments of clarity setting in to allow only enough time for fear and regret before clouding over again and losing all understanding.

Shaking his head, John left the room with a slight shiver; he had enough nightmares to deal with in his own life without making ones up that seemed to exist for the sole purpose of making him upset. He had joyful things to think about.

Instead of carrying that line of thought on for very much longer, John left the image to the back of his mind, where he could decipher it and dismiss it in a healthier way than the sheer repression he would be capable of in that moment. Instead he decided that he would actually find the answer to the question now gnawing away at his curiosity.

Hoping that Sherlock would be in his room, and not off at a case or busy with some other work, John headed to ask him about his results, or to at least celebrate his own with someone. It was weird, but wonderful to know that he had people surrounding him who actually cared how he was doing academically. There were people who actually would be proud of him for his achievements and recognise them as worthwhile, rather than thinking that they were only tools to get to where he needed to be. Though of them as steeping stones rather than things John was actually proud of on their own.

He was _happy_ that he understood something, he _enjoyed_ that process of learning new things, and if he learned things for learning’s sake, then that was a _good_ thing. It was fun. There was a joy to be had in knowing and understanding without having to think how this would improve their chances of getting a job in the future, or what practical skills it might have offered him. What was the fun in life if he only learned the things he absolutely _had_ to know in order to survive? People got that around here. Most of the time anyway. Sherlock did fall into the ‘nothing but the work’ attitude from time to time, but he still read fantasy novels and trashy literature for fun, so he must have understood the importance of the outside world.

He hoped that Sherlock had done well, it would be only too embarrassing and frustrating if John bounced in their to share in their hard work paid off only to find that something bad had happened. It was ridiculous of course; Sherlock would have done well, but his mind liked to create little panics about the world around him.

John knocked tentatively on the door, “Sherlock?” he asked, “You in there?”

“Come in.” he drawled, John opening the door gently to see Sherlock lying horizontally across the bed in the patented musing position #3. He glanced over at John carefully, taking in the scene upside down, before commenting.

“Congratulations, John. You deserved it.”

“How did you…?” John asked abortively before shaking his head, “never mind.” He had given up trying to understand the ways that Sherlock seemingly knew everything, whether through the powers of deduction or simply breaking into people’s files, he always knew what was going on. He went over and sat on the bed near Sherlock’s head. His friend wasn’t going to move any time soon at it would be easier for them to talk from this angle.

“What did you get?” John asked, feeling a little giddy still, looking around the room for Sherlock’s matching envelope.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, barely looking at him, almost bored of it, “All A*s, rather routine.”

“All A*s?” John gasped, “Sherlock that’s bloody amazing.”

“Meretricious.” He dismissed in reply.

“Fuck off.” John said, still grinning from ear to ear, nudging Sherlock’s ribs slightly when he saw the hint of that restrained smirk. “You can admit that you’re pleased with yourself.

“You shall never tell a soul.” Sherlock warned him with mock seriousness.

“Who would I tell?” he countered.

Sherlock looked thoughtfully at the ceiling, “You would be surprised at the amount of money that Mycroft would pay you to get his hands on that kind of information.”

“Actually,” John said thinking about it, “I don’t think I would.”

Sherlock then bent his elbow so his hand was held up in the air, it was only after a few moments of this that John thought to ask what it was exactly that Sherlock was doing.

“I’m offering a handshake.” Sherlock replied as though it should have been obvious, “It’s the appropriate thing to offer at times of congratulation, especially when I do not have the wherewithal to make cake.”

John shook his head, laughing at the suggestion. “Just give me a hug you idiot.” John asked, almost wanting to grab the words and shove them back in his mouth when he said them, wondering where on earth he go the idea that he could ask for such a thing.

Sherlock smiled and sat up, with their legs dangling off opposite ends of the bed they met half way for a brief congratulatory hug. It would have almost made John cry. It would have been a happy cry, but a cry never the less.

It didn’t take very long for Sherlock to propose a case that they could go and investigate together after they finished their classes for the day. For that moment John thought he knew what it was to have the support systems that Jim had told him about. To know that the people around who knew him, cared about him and his happiness. It was a new sensation, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t like it.

~*~

The end of March rolled around all too rapidly after the results, even though he knew that there were only a few short weeks between the results and his birthday, some part of him had hoped that he would be able to stave off the date for a little while. Unfortunately he had been busy, _kept_ busy by school work and friends and all the other things that teenagers did. As much as he could do within the confines of a secure institution at least.

It would be his 18th Birthday, he was now officially an adult in the eyes of the law. Of course this didn’t mean that he could come and go as he pleased, and until the age of twenty one he was entitled to stay at this particular institution rather than be moved to an adults only facility. For all intents and purposes being eighteen changed nothing, but it felt like a massive marker. It highlighted images of the kind of person he should have been by now, the kinds of things he should have achieved, and it seemed like a marker of losing a childhood that he had never really been allowed to enjoy in the first place.

His last birthday had been so terrible that he doubted that this one could have been worse in any meaningful way, but despite that knowledge, there was still something terrible about the hurried passing of days, as though despite the feeling of control that he had been learning, his life was still sliding past him faster than he could hold onto it. That was how lots of people felt about their birthdays, but he thought he was supposed to hit at least forty before he started feeling that way, not eighteen.

But that was fine. There were lots of people who had bad associations with their birthdays and with holidays. It didn’t mean that there wasn’t joy in his life, or at least the potential for it. He would just have to find days to celebrate with his friends that didn’t involve the marking of a day he happened to have been born. It was not something he exactly had had control over or a major hand in. He had other times to mark the passing of his life which he _did_ have a part in. His successful results had been a good example of those, he was almost thinking of celebrating it annually as a ‘resultsversary’. It should have been ridiculous, but it was as good a day as any other.

He wondered what normal people did on their 18th birthdays. For most people it was a pretty big affair, big parties and ball gowns and nights on the town. John was happy to let his own go unmarked, unnoticed as much as he could get away with. He would probably get a happy greeting from Mike, or Ms Hudson who must have known his birthday from the files. He even half expected to hear something from his father now that they were starting to build up the relationship that they had never before shared, but aside from that he had thought, hoped, that he had gotten away with it that year.

That was until midnight struck and there was a knock at his door. He knew it had to be Sherlock realistically, if there was an emergency then the member of staff would have called out to John to ensure that he was awake, Molly understandably never spent time near the male dorms, and Jim had gone back home for now, but even then he hadn’t expected anything from Sherlock. That was until the door was opened.

In his hands was a small iced cupcake with a single unlit candle and a carefully wrapped box. Although it was only wrapped in a perfunctory brown packaging paper, it still made John’s eyes bug out of his head at the sight of it.

“Wha…” John couldn’t even finish the word, let alone the question, his mouth hanging open in shock and his brain still half asleep from the lateness of the hour.

“Happy Birthday, John.” Sherlock said in his low rumble, the one that was sending a thrill of something unidentifiable through John’s chest.

“Where did you get cake?” he asked, the whole reality of the situation not processing.

“The kitchen staff are rather inclined to give those of us under special supervision extra food when requested,” Sherlock explained, looking at the little cake with interest.” As long as we don’t start using it to hide our other eating habits, or lack thereof, of course.”

John resisted shaking his head at how callous Sherlock was about his own eating problems and the problems of the others whom he must have sat with in the specialised canteen, but it was in Sherlock nature to be callous. The more John reminded him of socially appropriate boundaries, the less he was pushing them, whether he realised he was doing it or not.

“It’s great,” John said with a smile that he couldn’t stop from spreading and a lightness that he hadn’t felt about his birthday in a long time. “It’s more than great; thank you so much.”

John stepped back to allow Sherlock into his room; despite the regularity with which they spent nights in each other’s company, they weren’t actually _allowed_ to be in each others rooms past ten o’clock at night, it just happened to be that Sherlock tended to ignore such rules when they weren’t of convenience to him.

“I can’t light the candle unfortunately.” He lamented, “The matches I had hoarded for such emergencies were all confiscated during my last room check, but I thought you could at least pretend to blow the candle out. Maybe due to the extenuating circumstances it would count as your birthday wish anyway.”

“I really don’t think that it would.” John admitted with amusement, “But I don’t really want one. I don’t think there’s anything I would change right now.”

It was true. Strange as it may have seemed, he really wouldn’t change a thing. Sure he didn’t have freedom, and he would never be able to walk and run and be active like a normal person, but in this moment, he felt a kind of contentedness that he hadn’t ever expected to feel. He would never be able to wish his leg back, so why would he waste time lamenting over it by spending wishes on something long since irretrievable. It was healthier to mover past it, and whilst he wasn’t better, of course he wasn’t better, he knew that his acceptance of his situation showed more progress in that field than he had experienced in a long time.

“Maybe you’ll get one when you cut the cake.” Sherlock said, taking out a small and all but useless plastic knife, but one that was strong enough to cut through the soft cake in a pinch.

“Who says I’m sharing?” John teased, “It’s my birthday, I should get all the cake I want, with no sharing responsibilities.”

“That’s true enough,” Sherlock said, putting the cake on the bedside table and instead passing John the package he still held in his hands. “I shall find a way to persuade you to cut the cake later.”

“I thought that this would help you when you started your Medical course.” Sherlock explained, “I really wanted to get you a full set of surgical scalpels and clamps, but unsurprisingly it didn’t fit within the institutes safety regulations.”

John was both excited and apprehensive. He recalled the various tissue samples that Sherlock had been gifted with for Christmas and knew that something along those lines would not have been outside of the bounds of reason. John would need to gain a strong stomach if he was to continue to be a good medical candidate, but he was hoping that there would opportunities to work up towards the strong stomach that were slightly easier than actually owning and dealing with real tissue samples.

The wrapping though meticulous, was not strongly taped, the only tape required being on either end of the rectangle. There was a precise economy there, just as there was a precise economy with much of Sherlock’s thought processes. Even when it seemed as though he was rambling on indiscriminately about something, John could tell that not a word was being wasted. He suspected that Sherlock was the same in this regard too, even if it was as simple as wrapping paper.

When he took off the paper it was to see a beautiful mahogany coloured box. Knowing the type of presents that the Holmes’ gave to each other, it probably _was_ mahogany. There was a certain beauty in the things that they owned, as though they truly belonged in Victorian London, and not this modern world which didn’t always have time for such beauties, replete with form _and_ function. There was a little golden clasp keeping the box shut, gently engraved with a pattern that was common for those types of clasps, but it was still stunning.

He opened the box gingerly, hoping that whatever was inside wasn’t as antique as the box itself seemed.

But then there, in red velvet cushioning, sat a stethoscope. Not just the standard run of the mil one that was bought for Secondary biology, or for children’s play sets, but and honest to god, heavy duty, practical stethoscope.

“It’s on most of the medical course equipment lists. I thought it would be best to have your own.” Sherlock explained.

John turned the thing over in his hands, not testing it out yet, just getting a feel for how it sat between his fingers, letting his eyes run over every inch of it.  God it was beautiful, and expensive, he knew that much. Even though it probably wasn’t _that_ much money for a good one, for one as good as this it must have cost more than John had ever spent on anything. More money that he had ever actually been allowed control over.

Eventually, though it probably took him too long to notice it, his eyes came across an inscription along one of the arms. It was written in a swirling script, and one that was clearly engraved, rather than standard. John held it up to his eyes to decipher the words in the relatively dim light of his room at night.

_To Dr. Watson M.D, ‘I understood that my life was my own… A sense of despair so great that you have no choice but to be liberated by it.’ For all we have done, we now understand what it is to be free. I have faith in our futures. Detective Holmes_

He could see it now; the life liberated through, yet from, despair. It was perfect. The future was laid out in the sweeping golds of possibility and potential. It was far more poetic and adult a sentiment that he could have ever summed up himself, and definitely not one he would have expected from anyone their age. Yet here it was; a calling, a dare, willingness to say ‘here’s the hurdle, kiddo, jump it if you dare’.

“How did you even _remember_? How did you even find it out?” John questioned, surprise soaking his words. It wasn’t a secret exactly that he wanted to do medicine, but he couldn’t recall ever talking to Sherlock about it, and he still had no clue as to how Sherlock had found out his _birthday_. That much John had certainly never told him. He would have needed _time_ to pull something as perfect as this together.

“I’ve told you before,” Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes and his patented ‘don’t-be-daft’ look, “You’re important.” He reminded, “And I stole your file.” He added for good measure, perhaps to emphasise that he wasn’t actually psychic.

“I don’t even know when your birthday is.” John admitted, feeling a little shamefaced, Sherlock had gone out of his way not only to find out John’s birthday, but to remember it and get him a present. He had even managed to con the kitchen staff into giving him _cake_ for god’s sake.

“Oh, I don’t really care about my Birthday. It’s in January, hardly of import.”

John’s face fell, feeling even more guilty. “I missed it.” He lamented, “I wish I’d known. I should have gotten you something, done something for you.”

“Come now,” he chided as though it was a silly notion, “You hardly have the resources available to hand. I shall reiterate; I stole your file to find out about your birthday, I had no expectation that you would try to do something similar to find out mine. You have a rather strict set of…” Sherlock muddled over the word seemingly finding it perverse, “Morals, when it comes to this sort of thing.”

“Sorry?” John questioned, with a startled laugh.

“Don’t be, John.” Sherlock said, placing a surprisingly caring hand on his shoulder, warmth bleeding through the fabric, “It’s what makes you, you. I’d rather think I wouldn’t find you nearly so impressive without it. That you can be so interested in murders and deaths without losing sight of the fact that people are still people. That intrigues me. One day I may be solving a person’s death, but you will undoubtedly be saving their lives.”

For such a strange compliment, almost backhanded in the way that all of Sherlock’s compliments were, it hit a part of John that he didn’t know existed. He hadn’t truly discussed his plans to be a doctor with anyone other than Mike, and even that was just a few passing remarks in truth, and yet Sherlock had picked up on his desire to help people. Not only had he noticed it, he complimented him on it; insisted that he would be able to do it. That he could save lives.

John wasn’t used to people having that much faith in him. He had spent the first seventeen years of his life without people believing that he could be more than average, more than just another face in the crowd. And here someone was, here a whole group of people were, who said to him. ‘You stand out, you can achieve, and you can become something great’. That kind of belief was terrifying, beautiful, awe-inspiring and every other thing under the sun that he was not used to.

“Well.” He said, trying to put his words together, “Thanks. You know. For that. It was nice of you.”

“Think nothing of it John.” Sherlock insisted, giving his arm one last affectionate squeeze before letting go. “I’m merely stating the facts.”

Sleep lost to the both of them for now, they talked until the small hours, adding another sleepless night to John’s Roster, but he felt no regret in the wake of it.

~*~

“What about university?” Mike prompted, “After your recent success I had thought you would want to start your UCAS application.”

They had been talking practically, for the first time, about what John would do after his stay at the institute. He knew that he wouldn’t live there forever, but some part of him had anticipated moving from pillar to post, from one sanatorium to the next until he could be buried six feet under. Now, with the AS results behind him and his new exams looming, as well as the prospect of actually having finding a way to function in society independently, Mike was starting to push John into thinking of the distant future as something real and tangible, not merely speculation for the sake of analysing John’s psyche.

It scared him a little, it was the same brand of faith in John that Sherlock had demonstrated and it put the same kind of pressure on him. Except that Mike was _not_ supposed to be delusional, and therefore should have been able to tell the difference between John’s potential future and what he was actually capable of achieving. Somehow he was still encouraging John to try his best.

Did that mean that he was allowed to try and make something of his life? A dark shadow in his brain, the one that would probably remain for the rest of his life, said that he wasn’t allowed to try. That part told him that he didn’t deserve to try, especially now that Carl was now little more than a body in the ground.

But here existed people who were trying to shout out the opposite louder than the shadows. Whilst he knew that he would have to fix the problems within himself before he could ever comfortably believe in his own abilities, _he_ would have to take the role of that voice battling the darkness, he couldn’t deny that having someone there to take up that mantle until he had his own strength back was much appreciated. It was like having someone hold up the sky for him, if just for a moment, so that he could take the time to look up and see the stars for what they really were. To give himself a moment to remember why the task of holding up the sky was so important.

“I didn’t want to apply for anything until I left.” John admitted, “I didn’t want to apply for something just to have to put it off later. You know, if I have to stay longer than the court ordered time.”

Mike smiled at him in a reassuring, but for once vaguely amused kind of way. “But you’re thinking of going to university?”

John shrugged, “Well, yeah. I thought I’d never get the chance, but if a place would accept me, then I’d be willing to go. I’m starting to think it’d be better to go and study something, find time to get more experiences.”

“University really is the place for that kind of self-exploration. As long as you take the opportunities to really further your learning, then it’s a great space for more than just academics. It’s often a half-way house between the constraints of the family home and the true independence of the outside world.”

“Yeah,” John said, not wanting to admit that _here_ was as much of a halfway house between the strict home and the outside world as much as any semi-structured semi-independent student life could be. He struggled to imagine _any_ situation being as strict and unforgiving as the home he had grown up in, even though he knew it not to be the case.

“Either way,” Mike carried on, seeing that John had nothing further to add. “I really do think you should start thinking about university applications soon. You’ll need an academic reference, a personal statement and an idea of the types of courses you wish to apply for. I really don’t think you need to put it off; there are plenty of universities that would be happy to accept a student as hard-working as you, despite your history. If you want to go to university, then you need to start the application process as soon as possible, before the places all are filled.”

“It’s not just in case I have to stay.” John expanded, his voice barely raising above a whisper, “I’ve already missed the deadline.”

“It’s close,” Mike said, “but the deadline is still open, you’ve got plenty of time. We can help you with the process if you’re worried about writing a personal statement.”

“No,” he interrupted Mike’s offers of help, “The medical deadlines were much earlier. The applications had to be in by October. I won’t be able to apply ‘til next year.”

Mike sat back, his professionalism making it difficult to tell what he was truly thinking, but it was clear that he hadn’t necessarily anticipated John actually continuing to pursue his medical ambitions in their most academic form. Perhaps he had expected John to explore the avenues of a nurse or paramedic at university, but the full MD was a hefty task.

John knew this of course, and he knew of all people Mike would understand the sacrifice it took to become a fully licenced practitioner, but this didn’t put John off. He had shown to himself that he could absorb himself in research for research’s sake.

“Do you really want to do this?” Mike inquired, “to commit yourself to this?”

“Yes.” John said with more conviction than he normally ever felt, “Yes, I really do.”

“Okay,” Mike said, scribbling some things down furiously, “I assume you have no work experience when it comes to medical volunteering?”

“Not really.” John said, not really meaning, in this case, not at all, but he knew he couldn’t say he had done nothing, not if he wanted to be accepted onto a programme that would be so unbelievably competitive.

“I think you should start looking for internships then, ways to volunteer at hospitals or care homes over the next year before you apply, perhaps join an organisation such as St. John’s as well.”

“I won’t be able to do any of that stuff while I’m here though.”

Mike just smiled. “Your designated time is up before your exam results come out, it’s enough time to make a start on your volunteer projects. I don’t think you will need to stay much longer than the year John, do you?”

He could do this. It was an option for him. If he left in June, then he would be able to give his time to help others; free labour in this market had it’s place, and if John could only find someone willing to take in a convicted felon. Did it still count on his record if he was a minor? If he served no jail time was it as severe?

He suspected that spending any extended length of time in a mental institution was actually going to make it much more difficult to be accepted into any job or position than if he had just gone straight to jail. If he was stupid and wasn’t thinking, then people could forgive crimes as teenage imbalances far too easily, but the fact that he had been committed would be harder for people to overcome; being committed came with certain connotations.

In this case it wouldn’t have been fair to suggest that those connotations weren’t a going consideration, but he felt that he had more to offer than those who had never experienced such darkness of mind. He knew what it was to see that help from the other side and the impact that it had upon a person, both through his traumatic injuries and his mental recovery.

John was scared, he was absolutely heart stoppingly terrified. It was a good kind of scared. He hadn’t thought that there could be a good kind of scared, but this would definitely qualify as it. That terrified, yet hopeful, feeling that had bloomed in his chest in the wake of the conversation was unlike anything else he had felt before, and he liked it. It was the kind of feeling that powered a soul.

And he felt amped up!

~*~

John wanted to get something for Sherlock.

He didn’t know what he would call the present, maybe a ‘thanks for continuing to exist in my general vicinity’ present. The type of present that could never hope to match the gratitude that he felt exude from him on a daily basis, but he would have to find another way to put it. He was sure that random presents weren’t high on Sherlock’s list of things he had time for, unless they were directly related to cases, but John had missed Sherlock’s birthday.

John hadn’t gotten him anything at Christmas, and he had a sinking feeling that by the next January, one or both of them would have left the institution to go somewhere else. Whether that was another institution or facility, John wasn’t sure, but he had to give Sherlock a present before that terrible separation happened.

He would have to get a present of a good enough quality to match the one he had been given for his birthday. It had to be one that conveyed the depth of feeling that he couldn’t put into words. He didn’t have, as Sherlock had carelessly reminded, the funds of the contacts to pull something like that off, but he did know, in passing, one person who did. It just felt a little like he would be selling his soul to the devil to ask for that kind of favour.

John knew that if he asked for a present for anyone other than Sherlock, he would have been signing his life away in order to get it. Either that or he would be laughed out of the room, but he knew that one word of helping Sherlock, and Mycroft would be on board. It was a selfish thing really; he wanted to be able to give Sherlock something that reminded him of John on a daily basis. Something that would define him and make it difficult for him to delete John.

He was wary of his role in Sherlock’s life. If it was as fleeting as so many suggested, then he was playing too close to needing to have Sherlock in _his_ life. He was setting himself up for heartbreak and trauma, something he already suffered too much with as it was, if he didn’t start to untangle himself soon, he would give himself more scars than he could shake. He didn’t know what to do with the scars he already had, let alone trying to give himself more of them.

And yet he didn’t care. He was going to give Sherlock something wonderful as thanks for _being_ wonderful, and it didn’t matter if it hurt John. At least it would be a pain that he _chose_ to suffer through, the kind of pain that you couldn’t help but brush your fingers up against because of the reminder of the feeling. Someone said it was better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved, and he wanted the opportunity to test that out for himself.

A different part of John’s brain reminded him that he _had_ loved and lost, quite dearly, quite dramatically and that was why he was in this predicament in the first place. He had loved Carl, in a sense at least, as much as a small child could, and he had lost Carl to himself. He had lost Carl to the pressures of a backwards small town society.

He didn’t often feel the pain from that experience was worth the limited joy that he had gotten from it, but then again, the pain was more than just the pain of loss. The pain that he had suffered at the hands of Carl was directed and deliberate, it had no longer been about having misplaced the love that he had once felt, or being separated from a love, but having that love turn sour.

Sherlock forgetting him would not be the same experience, it couldn’t be, because if Sherlock didn’t remember him, then he would have no chance to treat John with distain and hatred, he would only be able to treat John as a stranger. Yes that would hurt tremendously, but he couldn’t imagine that it would hurt more than the persecution of the past. Neglect was awful, but John would have taken neglect over active attack. No attention was better than bad attention in his book.

Still, it remained in his mind that the present he gave to Sherlock had to be selfishly unique, an identifier that would stop him from being able to forget John, and something that Sherlock would enjoy enough that it would become part of his day to day routine. Something that would etch John forever in the boy’s life.

“I want to give him something that swishes.” John said, with perfect seriousness, despite the slightly ridiculous nature of the request. It was the image of that cape that stuck in John’s mind. It was something heavy that would keep Sherlock warm through the winters that his body was still too thin to protect itself against. Something as dramatic as the man himself.

He wasn’t sure how he had managed to wrangle a meeting with Mycroft Holmes. He had been given Mycroft’s number not so long ago, and on his and Sherlock’s scheduled meeting day, Mycroft had conceded to arriving earlier without informing Sherlock so that they might be able to talk.

“That… swishes.” Mycroft enunciated carefully, as though checking he had heard John correctly.

“I don’t mean like a bloody ball gown,” John explained, “like a coat, but one that’s… swishy.” He said again feeling faintly ridiculous now that his request had been articulated.

“I see…” Mycroft replied, tone telling John that he very much _did not see_ but that he was going to go along with it anyway.

“I’m just thinking of a large coat, one that he could make dramatic exits from crime scenes in. One that fits a little magnifying glass in the pocket as well as any other odds and ends he might need.”

“And Sherlock would be on a crime scene because…?” John could tell that Mycroft was playing dumb quite deliberately now. He knew as well as anyone the aims in life that Sherlock held.

But whatever game Mycroft was playing, John didn’t know the rules. Whatever response John gave now would probably be met with distain, derision or both and worse. He could understand that Mycroft didn’t want people encouraging Sherlock to do things that he shouldn’t have been doing, nor did he wish for his brother to get involved with the ‘wrong people’ again, but every conversation had with Mycroft felt like an interrogation.

“So, you would like to give him some sort of coat or cloak which allows him to make dramatic exits. An _interesting_ idea for a gift, but probably quite fitting. However, such a request really does beg the question; why do you feel it necessary to get him a present?” John felt, in the same way as he did with Sherlock, that Mycroft already knew the answer, but he was just being polite in pretending that there was a reason for John to engage in two-way conversation.

“He got me one.” John shrugged, the idea of articulating how he felt about Sherlock and therefore the reason behind his gift giving, was jump-starting his heart like he’d just had a million volts flood through him.

“And you’re asking me to help you because?”

“Because you know Sherlock’s sizes.” John explained, though it probably wouldn’t take much digging to find it out himself. “and the kind of clothes he likes.”

“I would always avoid giving people clothes as presents. You will never be able to quite match that person’s personal style, and there are so many potential faux pas that occur when it comes to proper cut and sizing.”

“But you know Sherlock’s anyway.” John insisted. He knew how much Mycroft valued his brother, the idea that he _wouldn’t_ know everything about him seemed faintly ridiculous.

“I do. John, you will _never_ be able to afford the sort of clothes that Sherlock wears.”

“I know I don’t have any savings, but I could pay you in instalments, maybe.” John suggested.

Mycroft smiled, slightly indulgent as though talking to a child, though that seemed to be his default tone of voice. “Sherlock’s day suits are bespoke from Gieves and Hawks of Saville Row. One of his favourite shirts is a one of a kind Dolce and Gabbana design. Sherlock may not have direct access to his accounts at the moment, but believe me when I say, _you cannot afford Sherlock’s style._ ”

John contemplated this in awe. He knew Sherlock always looked good, far from the slightly shabby jeans and a jumper that John tended to sport, but he hadn’t quite twigged exactly how much went into wearing clothes like that. He had no idea how much the services of a Saville Row tailor cost, but he was pretty certain it was a lot. More than he could afford to spend on a present for someone. If he had that kind of money it would be sitting in a bank waiting to pay his future rent.

“Right.” John said, trying not to feel emotional at having to go back to the drawing board. It was silly to cry over something so trivial. It had just seemed like a good idea, for Sherlock to have something stylish to wear. There would be something he could afford; he would just have to find something that Sherlock didn’t already own. He bit his bottom lip, hoping that the pain of it would distract from that sinking disappointment he was feeling.

“I can purchase the coat for Sherlock.” Mycroft suggested after a beat of silence. The strange altruism of the offer stunned John slightly.

“It’s alright,” John replied, voice small, “I wanted to give him something myself.”

“You would be the one to _gift_ it to him, I would have no further involvement that the monetary transaction.” He offered again.

“And in return?” This was too good an offer to pass up without comment, but he was wary of Mycroft, he knew how easy to indebt himself to the elder brother.

“Look after Sherlock.” He said, “Or rather, _continue_ to look after Sherlock. You may not see it, but I do owe you something by way of a show of gratitude, and after all,” he reminded, “It’s nothing that I wouldn’t spend on my brother anyway.”

“Nothing else?” John asked, needing to make sure.

“Nothing else.” Mycroft confirmed.

John smiled, feeling that sickening disappointment suddenly dissipate and leave him with that sudden joy. “Okay then.”

“Do you have any specific requests aside from _swishy_.” Mycroft curled, in amusement.

“Maybe something to set it apart from the others,” John mused, for a moment trying to imagine the thing and finding it hard to move past the Victorian image his mind had initially conjured up. “Like red stitching on the top button” he offered eventually.

He kind of liked the ideas of red stiches around the top button, like a neat surgery scar, a morbid token. It would be something to remind Sherlock of John and his ambitions, just as the sign off ‘detective Holmes’ would forever do for him, but upon seeing the question on Mycroft’s face, all that came out of John’s mouth was the cop out excuse “It’ll make it look different.” As though Sherlock wasn’t unique enough as he was.

Mycroft knew better, Mycroft always knew better.

“For a coat like that,” John questioned again, because he couldn’t imagine a world in which he could spend more than a week’s wages on a single item of clothing. “How much _would_ I owe you?”

“More than you could possibly afford,” Mycroft smiled still amused, “however. I have no need for your money, as long as you intend to be a positive influence on my younger brother’s life we shall consider the matter settled, your presence in his life is far more valuable to me than money. Do we have an accord?”

The strange turn of phrase made John pause, he wasn’t actually sure how a person was to answer such a question. What the hell was an accord and how did you get one? But then his brain slowly twigged, and he gave his swift agreement.

“Of course,” John said, “I want to be around.” Just because he was preparing himself for the pain of separation, that didn’t mean that anyone else had to know that.

Although he was starting to feel that _everyone_ did.

~*~

“Why do you think you didn’t mention these things to anyone at the time? Especially when it came to your case? Your upbringing could have had a deep impact on your treatment at the time of prosecution.”

John shrugged, not really knowing the answer himself. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” he offered, “I wasn’t taught to believe that I had a control over my own destiny I suppose. I was told throughout my whole life that whatever happened to me, I deserved. That whatever pain I suffered, it was as a direct result of something I did. It was how my mother doled out her own philosophy, I kind of thought it was wrong at the time, especially as I got older, but it was still there in my head.”

Mike sat back in his chair, preparing to say something. John had started to be able to tell the difference between Mike’s silences. This was the kind of carefully considered silence that suggested the revelation of something important coming in the near future.

“Does your sister still live in the town?” Mike asked carefully, weighing up his next piece of advice.

“No, she’s still at university, but she comes home every weekend I think. Or at least she did, I’m not really sure why. I think she eventually realised that there was something _more_ wrong with our mother than we had been led to believe. Maybe she felt she had to be a supporting figure. I don’t really know.”

“I think it’s probably a good idea for you and your family to have a group counselling session. Perhaps it could act as a starting point for everyone to seek their own therapy. I feel as though, despite the things that have been done, your sister also needs a lot of help. Possibly more than you do at this moment. Repression does very damaging things to a person’s psyche, as you experienced with how far she was willing to go to ensure your silence. And perhaps this would be a good opportunity to engage your mother, try to make her understand her own behaviours.”

Mikes words were very reassuring; they made perfect sense upon hearing them. Despite it all, John liked to think that perhaps it was possible for the group of them to work through some of their issues. Or at least talk about what sort of issues they had.

It wouldn’t be a magic cure, nothing ever would be, as John had been learning over the course of this whole year, but maybe they could be made to understand. On the other hand he knew how little his mother listened to reason, or anything even remotely resembling reason, and his sister held him in such low esteem that she would almost certainly prefer _anything_ other than coming to listen to him talk about how she had made him feel as a child.

John didn’t actually have much faith in the _outcome_ of the session, but at least it was being brought up. At least the idea of it had been considered. If family truly was the best thing for John’s continued well-being outside of the institute, then he needed to try to make sure that the support system he had was a _positive_ one.

“I’d like that I think.” John contemplated, “If you’re there with me.”

“Of course I’d be there, John. I want to make sure that we can control the situation, make sure that we get across what we want to get across before allowing everyone else to say their piece. It will be important for everyone to communicate together how they have been feeling about what happened to you. Especially as it _will_ have affected all of them in some way, even if they perhaps didn’t show it at the time.”

“Okay then.” John confirmed, “let’s get this show on the road.”

~*~

John didn’t know what he had really been expecting from the session, but he was fairly certain that this was about as bad as it could have gone without someone causing physical injury to another. For the most part, despite her reluctance to come anywhere near the ‘crazies’, Harry had actually been, if not amenable, at least not antagonistic about the situation. His mother on the other hand seemed to have decided that Mike’s teachings about things like self-respect and self-realisation were marks of the devil.

John just had to sit there in silence as the onslaught continued to come from his mother. He had said his piece and now he would have to wait for revelation and judgement. Or at least that was what it felt like. It was like being back in confession. The things just tumbled out of his mouth, one over the other. The fear that he had lived in. The accusations that he felt were directed at him. The way he felt that his sister was preferred because she put up an illusion of the perfect model daughter, when really she suffered too. The things she had done to protect her own image. The way she had been immeasurably cruel to him. That he felt that his mother had isolated him from a real support system until it was too late. That even if he hadn’t had the accident his mother would have still managed to treat him as though he were a diseased invalid.

“You _do_ have a disease John.” She shrilled, “And it’s nothing to do with your accident. You have been _wrong_ since you were a small child. You must be, or why would you accuse your sister of such things?” his mother exclaimed. “Harriet has done nothing but be kind and supportive to you, despite your abnormal _perversions_ , and to suggest that she would do anything to harm you just shows how deluded you are. God hates liars John.” She finished. Her old line; God hates _X_ , ringing in his ears.

Harriet, for her part, said nothing in defence of her actions. Aside from a small flinch at the shrillness of her mother’s tone, she looked neither offended or shamefaced, she seemed neither annoyed nor surprised at the comments that had been directed towards her. Nothing specific had been said, aside from John meekly admitting that he felt after his injury that she persecuted him - he had wanted to say demonised, but he knew how well his mother would react to that turn of phrase – in order to take some of the pressure away from her, because their mother’s expectations were overbearing and dangerous. That they both, Harriet and John had been damaged by it in some way, and they had dealt with that pressure differently.

“Harriet is a good girl, she has let God into her life. She has always been good, nothing like you, inviting sin from the moment you were able. Corrupting that Carl boy, never atoning for your actions. Everything that happened to you was righteous punishment and…”

“Excuse me.” Mike interrupted sharply and loudly, “Such accusations are entirely unhelpful, as well as being incorrect. There is nothing _wrong_ with John.” He had sacrificed some of his professionalism in defence of his patient.

“ _Nothing wrong!_ ” she shouted, “Of _course_ there’s something wrong. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here, he would be somewhere different, somewhere he could be useful and be in the service of God, not squandering his life in a place like this that feeds him false pity for being an aberration. You were supposed to fix him, not make him believe his sickness was _normal_. _”_

John supposed he was lucky that he could still breathe in the presence of this fighting, those cutting words, but it didn’t feel like luck, it felt like punishment of a great order.

“If you believe these things Mrs Watson,” Mike said, lowering his tone to try and regain control of the situation, “If you truly believe that God has time to punish people for things that are not problems, then you may have a problem that you need to address yourself.” He explained, “There are several delusional disorders which could cause you to find it difficult to take the blame for your own actions and transfer them to your beliefs in a higher power.” He rattled off, waiting for her to actually listen to him, “Do you even know what your saying?” He pressed, “Can you actually identify how cruel you are being to your son?”

“My belief?” she said again, “You think Jesus is not our lord?” her voice echoing her understanding that such a statement was insane itself. “No wonder John is not getting better. You’re probably feeding him lies. How could you let him say things like that to me?” she turned, appealing to her husband.

John’s father had been silent throughout the entire proceedings, a strange echo of the presence he had had in John’s childhood. He was always there, but passive, mostly placating, working whenever he could, seemingly just to leave the house and remove himself from the atmosphere within it. But now with his wife, his son and Mike all staring at him, begging him to say _something_ to ease the situation, he could not remain silent for much longer.

“It’s prideful to assume to know the will of God.” He said softly, carefully picking his words. “His will, shall become clear to us in time.”

Whilst it was something that John couldn’t help but agree with, it was clear that his mother was not happy with this response. She grabbed her bag and stormed off violently slamming the door behind her. John willed himself to not to listen to the things she was saying as she left, her displeasure at how the session had gone was echoing down the hallways.

The four of them who were remaining were stunned into silence. Though Mike had heard of John’s childhood and his mother’s belief system, he clearly hadn’t expected her to display such a violent reaction to his suggestions. Whatever had been said was clearly as much of a shock to the rest of them as it had been to Mike.

“I assume she’s not normally like that.” Mike said slowly, weighing up the atmosphere in the room carefully.

“Not at that volume at least.” John said slowly, feeling as though making a joke of the situation was probably the best way to proceed. Everything else seemed a little too raw, too real to handle with seriousness.

“I think I should probably go and talk to her.” John’s father said, standing, “Do you want me to bring her back?” he offered.

“No,” Mike replied shaking his head, “I think at this moment in time that would be counterproductive.”

“Do you want a lift, Harry?” his dad asked, given her an out, though she hadn’t yet broken her silence.

She shook her head, and said nothing in direct response, though she stood up to allow their father to give her a hug. “I’ll see you later sweet-pea. I’m sorry you had to miss lectures for this.” He said, pressing a kiss into her hair.

He walked over to John who stood to receive the same hug. “I’m sorry for how that went, John. I know you were hoping for a better response.”

“Not your fault, dad.” He mumbled into his shoulder.

But his father shook his head again, “I was too quiet. I’m always too quiet, but I’ll go and speak to her now. I’ll see you really soon.”

John didn’t hug Harriet goodbye. She stayed behind to talk to Mike and never said a word to John in response to the events that had unfolded. John had never been her priority, perhaps understandably.

He watched her for a moment, she had clearly wanted to be alone in order to talk to Mike, and whilst he had wanted to seek some words of advice himself, John knew that he could talk to Mike at any time. Harry didn’t have such a convenient support system. Instead he gave a sort of aborted half wave to the room, and turned and left.

“I’ll talk to you in about half an hour, John if that’s alright?” Mike asked him carefully, “You can come back here then.”

“Sure, Mike” he said in reply, trying to signal that, yes, despite it all, he was actually okay.

Harriet was hanging back, and he didn’t need to be a mind reader to realise that this was why Mike hadn’t spoken to him immediately after the session.

He found out at a later date that Harriet had been asking for the contact details of any therapist that worked near her university. She didn’t care who it was, as long as Mike recommended them and they were close by enough that her mother wouldn’t find out that she was going to a therapist. Harriet suspected that having the ‘perfect’ daughter needing clinical help would be too much for their mother to handle. A suspicion that John found himself agreeing with.

Half an hour was a really short space of time, something that was forced to hit home with him when he barely had time to gather his thoughts before he was back in front of the door to the group therapy room. He took a deep breath and went inside, Harry had already gone, and sitting there was Mike and a stack of papers.

“Hello, John.” He said, softly, apologetically. “I hope you’re feeling alright.”

“Better than I thought I would,” John admitted, “which I’m taking to be a good thing.”

“I apologise for how that went, John. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought you and your sister here straight away, it was clear that I should have spoken to your parents first, perhaps your mother more so. I should have already understood how she would be likely to react in the situation I had placed her in.”

“Don’t,” John said softly, not feeling as stressed over the outcome as he thought he might have done, as he probably would have done in the past. “It’s over now, you couldn’t have predicted that she would react quite like that. I hadn’t expected her to react like that either.”

“I have an option to discuss with you, but I want you to know that this decision is not one to be taken lightly, nor one I expect you to make quickly.”

John had no clue what this would be about, only that he wasn’t sure he would be able to make whatever decision Mike was about to throw his way. “Okay, what is it?”

“Now that you are of age, you can legally separate from your family. Declare that your mother is not your next of kin, remove any of the power she has to make decisions about your life whilst you are still in the institute, or in any other situation where you would be legally unable to make decisions on your own.”

“But now I’m an adult, aren’t I free to do what I want anyway?”

“Well, not necessarily. Especially over some aspects of your life such as financial independence. As you don’t have a job, you could still be counted as an adult dependent on your parents. You need to be living independently for at least three years before you could claim your university tuition, for example, without your parents permission, unless you declare yourself legally separated from them. I wouldn’t normally say it was necessary, but I do fear what your mother might do to keep you from attending university or gaining independence. Her attitude towards you, your friendships and sexuality seem to be very scaring, and she shows some problematic signs of control complexes.”

Even though he wanted to not believe such things of his own mother, he could all too easily imagine a scenario where she refused to let him attend university until such time as she ‘fixed’ himself. Or proved himself to be a good little servant of God. Either that or she wouldn’t allow him to go to university unless it was to study theology. Any of those scenarios would lead to the same problem. He would be stuck doing some floor level job that he hated and would be no good at for as long as it took for him to be able to afford university on his own, or until he could declare himself financially independent.

“What about my dad.” He questioned, “Would that mean I would be separated from him as well?”

“Potentially,” Mike explained, “in the eyes of the law at least. It means that you would have no reliance on them when it comes to means testing or applying for loans, but equally it gives them a complete separation from any of their legal obligations towards you. Not that at your age there are many legal obligations left. It means you are on your own. For better or for worse.”

“Do you think it would be worth it?”

“That’s up to you, John.” Mike admitted, “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t think there were some benefits to this option for you, but I’m also aware that such scenarios are often far more complicated that we have the foresight to understand. My biggest concern for you at this moment in time are the negative impacts that interacting with your family seems to have on you, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t hope that you would overcome those hurdles in time.”

“Right,” John said, looking at the information leaflets that Mike had offered to him at the end of his explanation. “Can I go please?” he said, “I need to think about this.”

“Of course, John.” Mike insisted, “and do remember that this is just one option that you could consider to take into account your current circumstances, this is far from being the best option, let alone the _only_ course of action. Alright?”

“Yeah, thanks.” John said sincerely, before gathering up the papers and leaving the room.

He barely noticed where he was going. He was moving far too quickly for safety, but he was not really able to bring himself to care. His mind was entirely elsewhere.

He turned the corner and ran into a body, dropping all the leaflets on the floor. His mind was too busy putting together the events of the day, and thinking over the implications of what Mike had spoken to him about, to even speak, let alone apologise.

He looked up from where the other person was, also grappling with the bits of paper that were spread out over the floor. When they were all collected he looked up to see Jim carefully reading the independence leaflets, he was coming in for some day sessions whilst still at school, so John hadn’t actually had time to interact with the boy in a while. He looked thoughtful, carefully considered, then handed John the stack he had picked up with a slow grin.

“Who needs family, right?” he drawled, carelessly a shot of ice going down John’s spine.

Suddenly John had a moment of terrible clarity. A person who was truly affected by the horrific death of their own family to the point of chronic insomnia and incarceration, would not say something like that, not in the way Jim had anyway. He might have thought it was a joke, but nothing about Jim seemed as though he was joking.

For that short period after his dream, where he was uncertain of the line between dream and reality, he had almost assumed that if the conversation _had_ been real... even then, at most Jim was a strange sort of stalker. John assumed that Jim’s belief in Carl’s suicide being by his own hands was a delusion created from listening to Sherlock’s words through doors and creating a story to make himself a protagonist in Sherlock’s life. The whole notion seemed so ridiculous from what he knew of the boy that John had quickly decided he imagined the conversation with Jim; that it had been a strange dream conflating fear with reality.

But here he knew that it wasn’t delusion. Jim’s malice was real.

In his mind’s eye, he could see Jim standing outside his family home, same crooked smile adorning his face, absorbing the blazing warmth, breathing in the smell of burning with glee. This boy had cremated his own parents alive.

And in that same moment, the moment where he wasn’t sure if _this_ was happening or not, he was terrified of what might happen to his own family. There may have been a lack of connection between himself and his parents, but to think of them in permanent danger, of them suffering and dying, even though there was nothing that they had done to incur Jim’s wrath was nightmarish. It was a feverish thought, even though it seemed too real to be the dream he had once assumed it to be.

His family was bad for him, or at least his mother was bad for him, he knew that now, understood it in a way he had never been able to grasp before, but there was a big difference between feeling that his family were dysfunctional and even entertaining the thought of killing them, as though death was so easy. As though such cruelty was as simple to impose upon another person.

He walked away from Jim in a haze, saying nothing. It could have been nothing but a delusion on John’s part, after all, Jim had done nothing but say a sentence that coming from anyone else would have seemed like a simple display of solidarity and companionship. It was nothing but a sentence of understanding and compassion, not one of murder and malice.

John didn’t know what to think, what to do or what to say to anyone. The only thought that span through his head at a dizzying pace, was ‘Please wake up. Please wake up.’

~*~

John wasn’t sure whether Jim had meant the things John feared he meant, or if John was projecting his fears of the unknown, fears about his family and fears of the future onto a familiar face. Either way he had taken to avoiding the young Irish boy as much as he could until he got his own head straight.

John was using this time to throw himself back into his work after the comedown of his last set of successful results. He knew he would have to work just as hard to succeed now, and even harder if he could manage it, though he knew that there was little more time in the day that he could give to such endeavours. Despite it all, he needed to sleep and he needed to remind _himself_ that he needed to sleep.

(A part of his mind also told him that he needed to remind _Sherlock_ to sleep, even though technically it was not John’s responsibility; he just liked to care for his friend when he was able. Sherlock, for some bizarre, unfathomable reason had chosen to listen to John as a voice of reason, and John was not above using that position to get Sherlock to do things that were good for him, like eating, and not putting on five nicotine patches at any one time.)

Amongst the things that John had started to make time for in the months following his results and leading up to his final exams, were the continued meetings with his father. Whilst whole family counselling had been a bit of a let down, or to put it more bluntly, a complete disaster, John and his dad had been spending lots of time together. Not just together as family, time, but with Mike or Mrs Hudson as mediators, where they could discuss the issues that they both felt needed airing out and speaking honestly about.

It was a healthy environment for them to talk about those issues, because there was no blame that either pushed onto the other, nor anything they asked from the other but to listen, to consider and to care. It seemed like such a difficult point to reach for so many people, John hadn’t reached that understanding with his mother or his sister, and yet once he had started to talk with his father, actually talk _with,_ not talk _at_ or listed _to,_ then he felt as though his head and his heart had just gotten lighter. He felt as though there was nothing that he needed to do to make his father understand. They just needed space in which to tell each other what had happened, what was happening and what they would do in the future to fix it.

This day though had been slightly different, his father had come into the room seeming guarded, even a little apprehensive at their upcoming conversation. Even though they had had these meetings regularly, even _before_ their attempt at family counselling and they had put six weeks of distance between that meeting and now, he seemed as though this was the first time he had spoken to John in the institute. He sat without greeting John as he had done before, but instead spoke calmly.

“I’m leaving your mother, John.” He said. It was such a simple statement, but it held in it a weight John could barely fathom. He couldn’t understand, what had caused this.

“But,” John stuttered, feeling a little shell-shocked. “but why? What about mum? I thought she needed looking after.”

“I have been trying to help your mother for years, but she doesn’t want to change. She doesn’t try to get treatment and responds negatively every time I’ve tried. I had hoped that bringing her here would convince her to try and connect with all of us, to give her a chance to understand the negativity that she has been inflicting on you and Harriet that needed addressing, but she continues to ignore the impact that it has on everyone around her. It’s something of a selfishness I’m afraid, John. I don’t think I’m strong enough to try and fix her anymore, not when she’s so unwilling to fix herself, and she’s tearing you to shreds. I sacrificed your happiness for hers too many times before John. I’m reluctant to do it again.”

“But why would _I_ be worth it? I shouldn’t be important to you.”

It was his dad’s turn to look shocked this time. “Not important?” He questioned, “Why on earth would you think that?”

“It’s just, compared to Mum or Harriet, you’ve always cared for them and sort of just let me be, and I understand why. I always figured…” John didn’t know how to put into words all that he felt. “What incentive did you have to care for me? I’m not really anything to you.”

“Incentive?” his dad looked appalled, “why would I need incentive to want to look after my own son? I _know_ I’ve not done a very good job of protecting you John, but that was never because I needed incentive.”

“That’s just it. That’s why I kind of understood if you didn’t care; I know I’m not your son, Dad,” John admitted, “I’m sorry that I’m not. I wish I could change it.”

“Don’t, John.” The man called father said, “Don’t ever apologise, you are more my son than you ever give yourself credit for. Sometimes more than I give you credit for, but it’s my fault _always_ not yours. It’s _never_ your fault. You are just perfect the way that you are.”

John nodded, feeling tears well up uncontrollably, he didn’t believe it, why would somewhat care so deeply about him when there was no real bond to tie them together. It was almost inconceivable, except that it had been said with such conviction that John couldn’t bring himself to deny it. Even if he thought it was undeserved, his dad clearly thought it was the truth.

It was with alarming regularity that John found himself crying these days, but it was because he had learned that it was okay to cry. Because it was okay to not be in complete control at all times. He might not have gained all the control, but at least he was starting to let go of some infinitesimal part of the guilt.

“I love you dearly, John. I hope I don’t give you reason to forget that. You will always be welcome in my home, wherever that ends up being. Whether, I can stay with your mother or not. Know that you come first now. I will make sure you have a _home_ to go to, not just a house.”

“Love you too, dad.” John choked, forcing the words through his tear clogged throat.

He found himself wrapped in the sort of hug that he had spent his lifetime thinking was just a myth of black and white movies. The kind of embrace that was comforting, surrounding and felt like protection. This was the father role that he had been missing his whole life. He had thought if he ever experienced it in his lifetime, it would be from a teacher or someone else’s parent, but even though it was late in the game, he was glad that it was his father with whom he had started to bridge that gap.

“What about Harry?” John asked softly.

“I know that you two have had some issues, John. I honestly don’t know what I can do to fix it.”

John was happy his father was thinking of him, even though John hadn’t made himself very clear. “That’s not what I mean,” he explained, “Harry needs a safe space too. We might not talk to each other very much, but would she stay with mum or with you?”

“I would like to offer her a place at wherever I end up, though she may eventually decide that she no longer wishes to return home. She seemed happy enough to leave and go to university.  Though it was harder for me to see, it was clear that there was a desperation for her to be away from the house as well, even if she was very good at disguising it. She might think that there is value in staying with your mother and spending time with her, or she may think that she wants to stay at university, no matter the extra money she would be spending on keeping halls over the summer, but if she wants to stay with me, wherever that may be, then she would be welcome, as long as you were happy.”

“I’d be happy, Dad. It’d be fine.”

“Good,” he said softly, contemplating the conversation that they had just had, “That’s good.”

John didn’t really recall much of the conversation they had after that, it didn’t seem to be very important, but what he _did_ remember was the calmness of it. It was relaxed and it was easy. A conversation the likes of which he could never remember having with his family. It was the start of a new chapter, and John had to agree; it was good.

~*~

The weeks after that seemed to fly by. It was barely any length of time before he and Sherlock were sharing the same rush of exam preparation panic as before, this time with an air of confidence that he hadn’t previously possessed. John was able to run through question after question, test after test waiting for the day where he had to answer them for real, and knowing that he had prepared for them as much as possible.

He had noticed slight changes in Sherlock over those weeks, little things about his general health seemed to have improved. He seemed fuller, not just in his physicality where good food over many months had replaced the once skeletal frame with lean but no longer ill figure, but in his mind as well, in his emotions and his exuberance. It was no longer just the promise of a good murder that made his life enjoyable, but the prospect of experiments in the lab, ones which had no application to the cases, or talking over a particularly enjoyable aspect of a Jeremy Kyle case (something to which the detective would deny having a strong addition), or even just talking to John about something that excited him.

It was as though he was once more engaging with the every day things that made people happy, like food and friendship. He was even using the nicotine patches less, though less was hardly the same as none.

And it wasn’t just him who was noting the difference. Mycroft, when he had turned up to give John the coat (which was simply perfect, more perfect than John could have hoped for), he had commented on Sherlock’s changed appearance, and gave John another half threat about the importance of sticking around for Sherlock’s own health as well as John’s.

That was why he hadn’t said anything to Sherlock about the meeting he had had with Mike.

He had spoken to Mike at great length about his decision not to separate from his family entirely, but to put his father down as his preferred next of kin in case of emergencies, because, as terrible as some of the things his mother had said to him over the years, when it came down to it, she was still his _mother_. Maybe it was some sense of misplaced loyalty, or maybe he half-believed that she still might change, that she still might accept help from somewhere, but to so openly and publicly break ties with her, when she was already going to be left by their father, would be too much for her to take, of that John was fairly certain.

That conversation had led to a different one; what _was_ he going to do once he left the institute? If he was holding off on applying for university until the medical deadline came around again, then he would need something to do in the meantime. This came back to the discussion that John’s time at the institute would be officially over in just a few weeks, at least in terms of the legal stipulations that were given for John to avoid prison time.

Mike however, did not want John to leave then. Not because he felt that John couldn’t handle the outside world, but as one last favour to his patient. One last debt that John knew he would never be able to pay, even when he would never be expected to pay it.

Because of the rules of the institute, as a day visitor John would not fall under the budget of the institute’s education policy. Mike would no longer be allowed to pay for a tutor for John if he left. John would have to go back to a normal school to complete his exams, or he would have to pay for a tutor himself out of pocket. Both of those options seemed less than optimal for the intense workload that John had signed himself up for.

“I know this means there’s less time for you to take up volunteer work before your application.” Mike apologised, “but I really do think that it would be beneficial for you to stay here until your exams are finished. That gives you a very defined date for your exit. Of course you would still need to see a therapist on a weekly basis, but one closer to where you actually live might be more convenient for you. Someone who you could talk to as regularly as you are able to talk to me.”

A defined date for his exit was not something he had anticipated. He had expected to be free to leave eventually, but being told that on the day of his final exam he would be free to go. He knew that date too well; he had chosen it to be a celebration of the completion of his exams. He had chosen that date to be the one where he gifted Sherlock the coat, and a promise of a long and lasting acquaintance, if the detective was up for it, but now that date seemed bittersweet. Terrifying in fact.

He had never known what it was to be comfortable and independent in the outside world, by the time he was old enough to escape the bonds of childhood, he was tied by the circumstances of his life and had lost any freedom he might have gained with age.

To know that he would be free to do what he wanted to do, without his mother there to watch over him or force a life upon him that John so desperately wished to reject, was too much. It had once seemed as though John would be waiting forever for a chance to do what he wanted. He would wait a lifetime for the opportunity to have a choice in his own life, and now? Now that it was within touching distance? He was terrified.

He understood why people went back to their captors, because a life without choice was much easier than having to know everything that happened to you came down to your own decisions. The knowledge that the things that happened to him in the future would be of his own making seemed too good to be true, and too terrible to be real.

“You’re thinking too much.” Sherlock stated, using his free afternoon to play with the microscope kit he had gotten at Christmas, making detailed diagrams of the slides he had been supplied with.  He could have been a fair artist if he had ever been inclined to such a career. John doubted that Sherlock was ever much inclined to anything of the sort, but it would have been foolish to presume anything when it came to the inner workings of Sherlock.

“I always think too much.” John countered. This was hardly the first time that Sherlock had called him out on his tendency to fold in on himself when processing new information.

“And yet always about things of such little importance.” Sherlock commented amused, “Imagine if you turned that mental capacity to something useful?”

He didn’t mean it, he didn’t ever set out to deliberately belittle John about anything, but his words were often more cutting than he gave himself credit for. John let his displeasure show on his face. About the only time that Sherlock understood that something was ‘a bit not good’ was when he could clearly see the emotions play on someone’s face. It was simply that no-one had bothered to make their faces exaggerated enough to be easily readable. Sherlock’s mastery of the human body was immense, but the subtle nuances of how someone actually _felt_ rather than simply what motivated them was an art he was still learning.

“My apologies, John.” Sherlock said with something akin to sincerity. “I merely meant to highlight that you seem overly concerned about something, and you tend to favour _talking_ about these sorts of things.”

“No.” John insisted, “It’s really nothing that needs any worrying about. I’m just a stuck in my own head today. I’ll be fine once I find my way out.”

“If you’re quite certain.” Sherlock said, hesitatingly, “but please be aware that you _can_ talk to me about such problems, if there are problems. Even when it may seem as though I’m uninterested.”

John gave a sharp laugh at that, “It seems like you’re uninterested because you _are_ uninterested much of the time.”

“Be that as it may, my disinterest does not preclude your need to talk as being pointless or unnecessary. Often I find from observing others that it is the ability to allow oneself to put the thoughts into words that actually achieves the goal of solving the problem. It tends to have very little to do with the actual listening part.”

“Thanks for that, Sherlock.” He said somewhat more amused than he had been previously, “I’ll keep that in mind when they lock me up for talking to the walls.”

“My dear, I hate to alarm you.” Sherlock whispered conspiratorially, “but you’re already locked up.”

John looked around him in mock confusion, “Well so I am. Talking to the walls here I come. I’ve heard they’re much better conversation than anyone else around here at least.”

“I believe I’ve heard something similar myself.” Sherlock paused momentarily before, his tone changed, a genuine thought joining the ones he was having about their conversation. “I used to talk to a skull as a child.”

“Pardon?” John spat out. Of all the things Sherlock could have said, he was not expecting that. It wasn’t exactly _surprising._ After all this _was_ Sherlock; talking to a skull was the least of the things that he had done in his life, but it seemed like it was only marginally connected to the conversation they were having.  He could imagine the path through the mind palace Sherlock had taken to get to that memory, but it felt like such a large leap, that he could help but think, _hope_ that maybe Sherlock wasn’t the only one who was starting to feel happier in his own mind.

“She never had a name, she was just a skull. The features suggest she was female but I never actually knew for sure.” Sherlock carried on his tale, “I used to speak to her when I had to go through my thought process. In a strange way it was as though I had a friend in her, a confident. Sometimes I’d imagine the responses she might have given to my questions and it would help me put my thoughts in order, like a sister, or a kind aunt. I miss that sometimes.”

“What happened to her?” John asked, “Did you bury her?”

John could easily imagine this young Sherlock, still so full of life and joy, discussing the finer points of detective work with a long deceased partner. It wasn’t difficult to picture him as an unusual loner as well. Someone who only dealt with people when it was absolutely necessary and who preferred the company of the dead to the living. The dead couldn’t talk back. The images all fit neatly into the longstanding puzzle that was Sherlock.

“I don’t actually know exactly what happened to the remains of the skull,” Sherlock might not have noticed the switch in language, from the familiar ‘her’ to the unfamiliar ‘skull’; the once friend reduced back to the inanimate object, but John did.

“Remains?” John pushed, wondering if pushing Sherlock was actually a particularly good idea, but not quite being able to stop himself doing it anyway.

“My uncle again,” Sherlock answered, as though the fate of the skull should have been evident, knowing the little of Sherlock’s past that John _had_ been told, it probably _should_ have been. “Anything that seemed freakish in nature, talking to dead people included, he sought to destroy. He threw it against the concrete of the hearth so it shattered. By morning it was gone, I imagine it was thrown away.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John offered, placing a hand against Sherlock’s shoulder “I wish that you still had her to talk to.”

“Don’t worry John; you’re quite the adequate replacement.”

“Thanks, such a complement.” John laughed, “I’m an adequate replacement for an inanimate skull.”

“A high honour in my book. Don’t take it too lightly. Or let it go to your head.” He offered with a wry grin.

It took John a few seconds to make the connection between ‘skull’ and ‘head’ but when he did, there wasn’t anything he could have done to stem the peals of laughter that flowed from him.

He would miss this. God, he would miss this.

~*~

“Mike,” John said, as he took his seat in the therapist’s office, “You know Sherlock?”

Even as he said it he knew it was a stupid question. Of _course_ Mike knew Sherlock, they weren’t exactly dealing with each other over a pint down the pub. They all lived together in this place, even if Mike wasn’t Sherlock’s therapist he certainly would have spoken to him on a regular basis.

“Yes?” Mike questioned, looking up from his papers, “Is there a problem with him?”

“No.” John insisted, “Not at all. I was just wondering…”

“Wondering…?” Mike prompted.

“When does his time at the institute finish?” John resisted the urge to explain his question or his interest. He knew that anything he said now wouldn’t help him get answers, it would only serve to make him seem suspicious or maybe vaguely stalker-y. Simple was always the best option, let other people form the excuses in their own heads.

“I can’t talk to you about that, John. There is a confidentiality agreement between me and all of the inpatients.”

“Could you tell me _if_ he’s getting out at least?” John realised he was pleading like a child, but he couldn’t bring himself to care that much, this was important to him, even if he hadn’t be able to quite put a name on why.

“No.” Mike told him softly, but clearly. “I really can’t. If you’re so curious, then maybe you could ask _him_?”

It was an obvious solution, but one that John had already dismissed half a dozen times. If he asked Sherlock when he would be leaving, then Sherlock would ask John why he had asked in the first place, either that or he would ask John when _he_ was leaving in return. Something that John knew he couldn’t answer and Sherlock would easily be able to conjecture his own answer from.

John knew that Sherlock must have suspected _something_ from his behaviours as it was, it wasn’t as though John’s thought patterns were ever particularly subtle, but at least if he pretended that everything was normal, then Sherlock wouldn’t pry. Asking Sherlock personal questions such as those ones would definitely count as abnormal.

~*~

Eventually, through means John didn’t want to think about too much, Mycroft arranged another meeting with John, and he found his questions jarringly answered.

“How are you, John?”

“Fine. Thanks.” John said, barely remembering how to talk during those brief moments of silence.

“I trust the parcel was to your satisfaction?”

It took John a few moments, a few too many moments really, to realise that Mycroft was talking about the coat.

“Yes,” he replied quickly, hoping that his glitch would go unnoticed, even though it was a particularly vain hope. “Yes, it was perfect thank you.”

“Let me know what Sherlock thinks of it when you give it to him.” Mycroft added barely looking at John, in fact he seemed to project a sense of  boredom about the whole matter.

“How?” John began before thinking better of it, “Oh, never mind.”

“I trust you will give it to him before you leave the institute.” Mycroft said in that way of his that was ever so calm and ever so threatening. “It would seem rather remiss of you not deny Sherlock the opportunity to react to such a present, and to send it on after you leave would seem rather a waste of postage.”

“I guess,” John replied, although he wasn’t exactly sure why Mycroft was telling him this.

“Now, you are scheduled to leave on the day after your examinations correct?” Mycroft asked, although it was clear that he already knew the answer. “Are you planning on telling my brother that you’re leaving?”

John had to stop at that, because frankly he wasn’t sure. There was no reason _not_ to tell Sherlock, but then again he hadn’t been able to come up with a particularly good excuse _to_ tell him either, except that he deserved to know the truth, which was as good a reason as any when it came down to it.

He also felt, by some instinct borne of fear, that this was not a question that he was supposed to answer, more a question of listening carefully to what he was being told to do. What had come out of Mycroft’s mouth was not really ‘are you planning on telling my brother?’ but ‘when are you telling my brother, because the answer had better be ‘soon’.’ This kind of passive aggression was not something that John had a lot of practice in dealing with, not in this way at least, though he had known plenty about passive aggressive people whilst growing up.

“I suspect that you wish to know in turn when Sherlock is expected to leave.”

“I guess.” John said holding himself back from screaming ‘yes’ at the top of his lungs. Because he _did_ want to know. He desperately wanted to know, for better or for worse.

“Then I suppose you should be made aware that Sherlock has no date for he is due to leave the clinic. He will leave as soon as his is well enough to, but not a moment before. It would be callous, I think you would agree, to send Sherlock out into the wide world in the state he currently resides. Despite his overwhelming ability to succeed academically, he has not, you may have noticed, applied for university despite the likelihood that he will be finished at just exactly the same time that you are.”

“Which means?” John inquired because, as ever, he had no clue as to what Mycroft was getting at when he explained such things to him.

“I’m sure you’re aware that my brother is no fool, he would not be tricked into believing that he was about to step out of those doors as a free man. If he has not applied for a university place then it is not because he is holding out for Oxbridge or medicine as you are, it is because he knows that he will not be permitted to attend come autumn.”

“Then when _will_ he be permitted to attend?”

“When he is _better_.” Mycroft emphasised “It may seem strange when one is in a world of people who are far more ill, but Sherlock is a _very_ broken child. Until he is capable of moving through the world of adults without fear of total breakdown, then he is not safe to exist in it. Even in the semi-structured world of university life. Despite it all, you have _always_ been less ill than my brother. Even when you first arrived here.”

“So you’re saying that Sherlock can’t leave?”

“Not yet.” Mycroft reemphasised slowly, taking his time to make sure that he was properly heard. “I’m setting him up an internship with the Metropolitan Police, let him have a chance to meet the Lestrade to whom he owes so much.”

That statement brought with it a lot of clarity about Mycroft’s own silent role in Sherlock’s life, beyond even the factors that Sherlock _knew_ his brother had control over. Mycroft gave everything he could, pulled every favour he could manage, to ensure that his brother was happy. John didn’t feel like he needed to comment on it. Mycroft wouldn’t exactly appreciate the accusation.

“When he his ready, he can try the internship, if he can cope under the watchful eye of London’s finest, then he can apply to university, but this could take months. Years even. You will be gone from here in a matter of weeks, it’s important that you know what this separation could do to Sherlock.”

“I can’t help that I’m leaving.” John commented regretfully.

“Nor do I expect you to stay,” Mycroft insisted, “it would be a pointless drain on taxpayer’s funds. However, that does not mean that you can’t be responsible in your leaving and ensure that everyone is properly informed at the appropriate time.”

John nodded; it all seemed like a good plan in theory. Tell Sherlock what was going on and also ensure that they knew how to keep in contact. Give Sherlock the coat and ensure he could never forget his face. It was all so selfish, both to keep quiet and to speak his thoughts out loud.

He didn’t feel like he could do this at all.

~*~

“I’m leaving after the exams finish. Look, Sherlock, I really want to keep in touch with you, but I’m leaving soon, right after the exams finish. I’m sorry Sherlock, I would stay if I could but…”

“You’re leaving after the exams finish?” Sherlock completed John’s sentence, causing him to jump and turn away from the mirror he had been practicing in.

“I’m sorry.” John said, feeling embarrassed; both that he had been caught being so stupid and that he hadn’t managed to say the words to Sherlock’s face before his friend found out.

“Why?” he questioned, “You were going to leave here someday, whether to move to a permanent adult residence or to greet the real world. You act like this should be a surprise to me.”

“I know,” John explained, “It’s just that, well when I leave, you…”

“I will not be leaving.” Sherlock finished once more, “I am aware of this too. It would have been very unlikely for the two of us to have finished treatment at the same time as each other. That would have been a very strange coincidence, and not one that a sensible person would have banked on occurring.”

“Maybe, I guess, but I still thought that you’d want to know. I’m not very good at saying goodbye, and I thought. Well I thought that if I told you now it would make it easier to say goodbye later. We could be prepared for it.”

“I do not intend to say goodbye to you, John.” Sherlock said, and John knew that it wasn’t an invitation to stay in contact, but he had to take it that way, how else could he take it and stay happy?

“We can always write. I can visit too sometimes I’m sure. I won’t be doing much this year anyway so we’d have plenty of time.”

“You misunderstand me.” Sherlock said, even though John _hadn’t_ misunderstood him. “I will not say goodbye because caring is not an advantage. There will be no benefit for me to keep contact between us. Such emotional reasoning would undo the forward progress I am making. If I wish to leave here then I need to focus on myself. Focusing my energy on you when you are not even here to need such attention would be completely pointless. I will not continue to make the mistake that I am making.”

‘Oh,’ John though, because that made a lot of sense. It was nice, to be thought of as someone who deserved Sherlock’s care and it was nice to feel that also care could be a mutual thing, friendship or something deeper than that John could hardly guess, but there it was nevertheless.

And because of it Sherlock was going to push that feeling a way, and bury it under layers of wit and genius. It had worked for him this far, and there was no incentive not to continue to follow the same pattern, except that John was going to continue to care either way.

It would have been terrible, absolutely terrible, for John to still care so deeply about Sherlock and have Sherlock in return see him as burden of emotion that he couldn’t afford to carry. But that was the future that lay before him. He would just have to put up with it, and for now he would enjoy what time they had left together, because that short time was better than none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a little carried away with this chapter (it's almost 25,000 words...), so it's taken me quite a while. There's only one chapter left! Our story is drawing to a close, and I hope that it meets your expectations when it comes!
> 
> Whenever that might be.
> 
> Love you all! Sx


	9. Anahita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Hero returns home triumphantly, looking to the horizon, and the next great adventure.

It may have been true that John hated school, but he _loved_ lessons. The lessons he loved the most were science; he could see himself as a scientist. It was so different, so apart from his upbringing that the very thought of it felt like some incredible rebellion. The rebellions of the mind were safe rebellions, ones that he could revel in without worrying about the consequences and he knew that there would be consequences if it ever got back to his mother that he wanted to be a scientist.

He would save that revelation for a time when he could afford to be cut off from the family home. At fourteen, it would be difficult for him to escape his mother’s hold.

It was unusual for John to know so deeply that he wanted to do something completely against his mother’s wishes. He had known before that his mother didn’t approve of many things, but was something that he actively wanted to participate in that she actively frowned upon. She was anti-science in a lot of very strange specific ways. She wouldn’t expect a person to pray their cancer away, but would be distrustful of anything she thought contained ‘chemicals’, because it was not god’s natural way.

There were lots of way he wanted to refute her ideas; the notion that _everything_ was chemicals, or the notion that the ‘natural’ way was a 40% infant mortality rate and a life expectancy of thirty. He knew though, that if he mentioned the idea of Neolithic man, he would end up with a huge earful of information about the ages of those who lived in the bible, and how the human race was devolving into sickness, because we didn’t live as long as those righteous men. The counter argument that Jesus was a pretty young dude when he died would also not pass muster, he was fairly certain.

Mentioning to his mother anything to do with evidence of history outside of, or older than, the bible was pretty much asking for a cuff around the ear. Although she would never admit to raising a hand to her children, she definitely had ways of making people cower in her wake.

This left him, as all decisions in his life seemed to, at a crossroads beyond his control. He was left racing past the junction, looking only at brief glimpses of roads he _could_ have travelled, choices he _could_ have made, if only someone gave him the time to have a proper look. The latest junction he had glanced in the rear-view mirror was his GCSE Science lessons.

If he wanted to become a scientist he would need to study the sciences at A-level. If he wanted to study the sciences at A-level then he needed to get the best possible grade for his double science GCSE. He had already had the choice of doing triple science taken from him by his mother, who all but filled his options form in for him. If he hadn’t signed up for religious studies as his third slot, then he suspected that she would have refused to sign the form.

It was a secret poke in the eye towards her overbearing nature when she didn’t look at the curriculum beyond the title, because the actual course was about taking a critical look at the junctions between religion, philosophy and ethics. Questioning their religion in such a serious way, and talking about other religions as though the Catholic Church was not the one true religion, would have incensed his mother. Just like the rest of her life though, she had taken the topic on blind faith and assumed that nobody could talk about religion without acknowledging Jesus Christ as the one true messiah.

She _had_ however looked very deeply at the science curriculum, ready to remove John from any topic that she found disagreeable. He had hoped, perhaps in vain, that she would value his education over her beliefs, but it was not to be. Instead she had poured over every book, every examination question and every option, checking how far she could dictate John’s involvement without him failing outright. Of course she knew exactly which exams and which results he needed in order to get onto a Theology course, and science was not an inherently important part of that.

As a result he found himself outside his Biology teacher’s room with dread sitting like a lead weight in his stomach. He didn’t know exactly what it was his mother had said to the school, but he had been pulled out of the science lesson, so it was bad enough. Whatever incident caused his removal, his teacher had not had enough time to put together a separate task for him to complete. Instead of actually learning anything, he was given some past paper questions to get on with. With a careful message for him to come to the room at lunchtime for a quick chat.

“Hello, John.” She said, soft and sweet. At least he knew that he wasn’t in trouble. “Do sit down.”

“Why wasn’t I allowed to sit in the lesson today, Miss?” he asked, feeling the dread rising into his throat like bile, “It’s just, I really, _really_ want to do science A-levels if I can, and I can’t afford to miss any lessons, since I’m not doing triple.”

The teacher looked slightly taken aback, by his statements, though which part of it surprised her he couldn’t tell. “Didn’t your mother discuss this with you? I had assumed… well the letter made it seem as though this was a mutual choice.”

“To be taken out of lessons? Sorry Miss, but that’s the only part of school I _do_ like.” John admitted, feeling nervous for saying the words aloud, but at the same time feeling a sweet sort of catharsis from them. “Could you tell me what she said?” he asked, hoping that when it concerned him directly, there would be no confidentiality rules.

She paused for a moment, seeming to consider her options, seeming almost as though she was gathering herself for a fight. “Well, your mother has expressed her wish that you are not present in the lessons where I’m teaching evolution. She informed the school that it went against your family’s religious beliefs, and that you need to be found alternate work. Could I ask, why _aren’t_ you studying separate sciences if you wish to complete the A-level courses?”

John shrugged in reply, he didn’t have a good answer, and there was a bitter anger welling up inside him. This was his _life_ and she was putting her own beliefs ahead of his future success and happiness. He had known she was capable of it, but never had he had it so obviously thrown in his face. This was not some whim he just needed to ride out until he could leave home. If he missed a whole chunk of the curriculum, it would redirect the path of his entire future.

“I just like science.” He said, voice thickening. There was so little control he had over his own life, he wasn’t even allowed to do the things he wanted to do and _fuck_ if he wasn’t devastated. “I don’t care about the religion stuff. I’ll come to the lessons. I just won’t tell my mum. _Please_.”

“Oh, John.” She replied in a way that was part pity, part anguish, “I really can’t make those decisions. I can speak to my head of department, but I can’t guarantee that it will make a difference.”

“But what if a question comes up in the exam? I can’t _not_ answer it.”

“We can get modified papers for such situations I believe.” She was flicking through her papers seemingly looking for something, but he recognise it as the same habit she had when she was thinking over something in a lesson, “I can’t let you in the lessons just yet,” she insisted, “but what I can do is give you a separate project to do whilst you’re out of lessons. Then at lunchtime or break time I can give you access to the lesson material and you can learn it in your own time if you want to do that. Whilst we get this whole mess sorted though, is there any topic you’re particularly interested in? One that you might enjoy working on?”

“I like all that crime stuff, and human body stuff.” John said, not knowing what the proper terminology was.

“Forensic Pathology it is then, John.” She said with a sad sort of smile, “I’ll get you some guidelines together to start working on it. You’ll be a crime fighting doctor before you know it.”

~*~

John had expected that his declaration of his impending freedom, and Sherlock’s subsequent assertion that caring was not an advantage, would mean his friendship with Sherlock was over, at least for now. He had hoped that Sherlock would want to be friends with him at some point in the future, but he understood that if he had been forgotten then there was little he could do to change that situation.

It therefore was a great surprise, though not an unwelcome one, when the next day Sherlock bounded downstairs towards John to using as a sounding board about a recently uncovered body found by a confused forester at Dartmouth. It was as though nothing had changed. Sherlock’s movements tossed his curls back and forth as usual, his hands were as open and effusive as ever, his words were deep and lilting and he seemed to treat John in the exact same manner as he had always done.

He half wondered if Sherlock had simply forgotten their whole conversation yesterday. He almost wanted to bring it up, but then he knew what bad manners it was to look a gift horse in the mouth. Then again, _not_ looking too carefully at a gift horse had gotten the Trojan’s in rather a lot of trouble.

He wanted to not question Sherlock’s motives or wishes in general, but it couldn’t be helped at times. There was a lot going on and John found it hard to trust anyone. He had let himself trust the people around him to only find himself dismissed in the strangest way possible and it had thrown him off even further. Dismissed and tightly held on to at the same time was not something John could easily wrap his head around.

With his applications to medical internships, his preparation of his personal statement for UCAS and his own upcoming A-level examinations, he shouldn’t have been spending so much time questioning the motivations of other people. He had seen from his own mother that he could never change someone and could certainly never force a person to change themselves. People only changed on their own. They might have needed help to do this, but it was only effective in conjunction with self-help, not apart from it.

So the same would have to be true for Sherlock, no matter how much John might have liked to believe otherwise. He would just have to be there and be a good friend during whatever Sherlock did or didn’t go through. If Sherlock brought the conversation back up, if Sherlock explained that he needed John’s help to work through his own feelings and emotions, then Sherlock would most definitely get it. If Sherlock remained silent then John would remain there all the same.

They both had too much work to do.

“I have some laboratory work to complete,” Sherlock said suddenly, turning on his heel mid-sentence. The portable lab was still set up outside and would be for the foreseeable future, since many of the patients were completing either GCSE or A-levels. He seemed to be stepping out the door towards the mobiles, but John was certain that when they were unoccupied, the rooms were locked. “Are you coming?” Sherlock asked.

John had been almost certain that he would have been asked to stay behind, that Sherlock needed his silence. He had been wrong and dumbfounded.

He wasn’t the best at reading Sherlock, he wasn’t the best at reading anyone, but there had been a certain predictability to the young detective-to-be that had vanished. He wanted to say that he was busy, give some excuse about needing to work for his examinations, or start to organise and pack up his belongings before he left in a very few short weeks, but instead he was unable to say a word, or to move. His brain was weighing up his options too quickly, and knew that any potential lie he told, would be spotted by Sherlock immediately.

In the end John was forced to realise that it was only few short weeks before he left. A few short weeks and he would be leaving Sherlock behind. With the best will in the world, he knew that Sherlock could not, or perhaps would not, stay in contact with him once he left these walls; he didn’t want to waste the time he had here over thinking things. The limited moments left in the institute would be spent enjoying the time they had together. Instead he nodded his head and followed.

“I received a most curious e-mail, not half an hour ago.”

“Most curious?” John inquired with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock did use the strangest turns of phrase.

“I admit that the language of the letter was quite antiquated, it’s had a momentary effect on me.” But John didn’t mind so much, he liked the way it sounded in Sherlock’s voice.

“A letter” John asked again, “but you just said that it was an e-mail.”

“Exactly, John. Exactly.” Sherlock beamed at him with what could only be described as pride.

~*~

Words were blurring into insignificance in front of his face whilst he glanced over the page for the eighth time, or was it the millionth? He neither knew nor cared anymore, there was too much going on for him to absorb. It was too late in the day and he had already done so much work; tutoring, general paperwork and a good old bout of psychotherapy included. He put the book down to rub at his tired eyes, before sighing and picking it back up again.

“I know that face.” An Irish lit commented from across the room.

“Jim,” John said cordially, still mostly confused as to whether he had been projecting his fears and rage onto his acquaintance, or whether the things that he thought had happened had actually, well, happened. He was of the opinion that he should start finding out how a people could tell if they were dreaming. Or if a friend was suffering from DID.

“What are you working on this time?” Jim enquired, sitting across from John, glancing at the myriad of books spread across the table.

“Matrices, I know it already, but my mind has given up.”

“Such is life.” Jim said, harmlessly enough in reality, but it sent a bolt of terror through John’s mind. Everything about Jim did that to him these days. There was nothing different about him, not the way he spoke, or looked, or any other thing, and yet John was still unsettled.

“Well, good luck with all of that.” Jim said, “The last thing you’ve got before you get your pass out of here isn’t it?”

“I didn’t realise that it was public knowledge,” John commented, “I had kind of wanted to tell people on my own.”

“Oh,” Jim laughed cordially, “It’s not, but I tend to know these things. I listen well.”

“Well, it’s true. Just the exams to go, and then I’m off to greater climbs, or something like that at least.” John was forcing himself to keep his tone light, not scared or cowed. He had to force himself to calm down; there was nothing to be scared of here.

“I look forward to seeing you again. I’m on my way out as well, possibly permanently this time. I’m just packing up the last of my things.”

John’s eyes widened in surprise; he had thought only a little while ago that Jim’s insomnia had gotten so bad that he was contemplating long term residency, and now he was leaving all together? It took John aback.

“Why permanently?” He asked, hoping that he had managed to inject some sense of tact into the conversation.

“It’s been recommended that I seek some additional assistance from outside the institution. I happen to know a lot of people who are willing to help me.” And in the same way as it had been for the past few weeks, John’s imagination had started to go wild.

“Well,” he said, clapping his hands together once and standing, “I better be off, lots to do. But don’t worry, we’ll meet again soon. After all; it’s only a matter of time before Sherlock gets out. Then he’ll come and find you I’m certain of it.”

John wanted to take it as a comment on the obvious closeness of Sherlock and John’s relationship, but was struggling to see it that way. He hoped that he didn’t sound too weirded out when he replied. “Yeah, hopefully.”

“Oh he will, I guarantee it. He’ll come and find you, and so will I. Then the real fun will begin. Good luck on the outside, Johnny-boy,” Jim said with a shark smile, “You’ll need it.”

“Good bye, Jim.” John said, a half aborted wave given in kind, mind running on overdrive.

“Please,” Jim said, all teeth and power, as he walked away, “Call me, Moriarty.”

It was full of meaning, deep and important, and for the life of him John couldn’t fathom what it was. There was no goodbye, there was no fanfare. In the morning his room was packed up and, as if he was never there at all, and Jim was gone for good.

~*~

“And you’re done.” The invigilator announced as John put the paper down for the last time. He had been as finished as he could have been for the last ten minutes, but was hoping that he could get some inspiration on the question that he hadn’t been happy with if he gave himself his full allotment of time. He had written _something_ down at least; his tutor informed him that leaving questions blank when you have time left was _the_ cardinal sin.

He looked over to the left, where out of the corner of his eye he had noticed   
Sherlock had been sitting in a bored state of ‘finishedness’ for the past ten minutes at least, and probably longer as well. John had only had time to notice when he himself was as done as he could have been.

“You completed the question correctly, you know.”

“Just one of them,” John laughed, “That’s good to know at least.”

“I’m sure you completed many of them to the required standard,” Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand, “I specifically wished to mention the question that you had spent much time agonising over; it was correct.”

“Looking at my paper could get you disqualified, you know.” John echoed Sherlock’s tone with a smile.

Sherlock looked equally bored of John’s summation of examination rules as he had by the exam itself, though gave a smile in return. “It hardly matters when I didn’t touch my own paper for at least the last half an hour of the examination.”

“How could you see from that distance anyway? You were sat right across the room from me.”

Sherlock gave his standard look of exasperation, or perhaps fondness, to reproach John for, as always, missing the ‘obvious’. He had probably taken care to match the sounds of writing to the shape of numbers and symbols formed in a particular order. Or the ink stains on John’s hand telling a certain story. He didn’t know and it didn’t really matter, he was just glad that Sherlock cared enough to use that information to comfort him.

“So, what now?” John questioned, feeling a little overwhelmed at the prospect of being finished and the lack of certainty that lay ahead of him. His life had been so purely regimented for so long, and now the rest of the world was open to him.

Sherlock looked at him, trying to puzzle though the many layers that the question was asking. John was scared for a moment that Sherlock was going to outright ask what John meant by the question, because he didn’t know the answer, and if he could put the answer into words he wouldn’t want to give it. In the end Sherlock simply asked, “Dinner, I believe.”

“Think that you could get a pass to my cafeteria for good behaviour?”

Sherlock smiled at him, “I believe that requires good behaviour on my part, and we are all aware that good behaviour is not a trait that I exhibit easily.”

It was funny how a single raise of an eyebrow could have John’s pulse raising and a blush rising up his neck in a few seconds, especially in conjunction with the threat of _bad behaviour_. He tried to appreciate instead that Sherlock in spite of their looming separation, was talking with John so intimately and not pulling away as he had threatened to do when John first told him about it.

“My dad sent me some chocolate bourbons. Maybe we can have a post dinner snack in place of actually having dinner together.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said, and turned in the direction of the dining rooms, slowly taking a few steps so as to make it clear that he expected John to join him.

The warmth bled through Sherlock’s side, and John thought that maybe he shouldn’t stand so close that he could smell the faint hints of cologne that Sherlock wore. But he couldn’t bring himself to be away from Sherlock side for a moment longer than he had to be. It was all coming too soon.

~*~

“I admit, though the name suggests otherwise, this does not taste remarkably of chocolate.”

“Of course not.” John said with a raise of his eyebrow, “They’re asda’s finest bourbons. You’re lucky they taste of biscuits. Have you never had one before? I’m pretty sure they’re a stable of every Sunday school, youth group and play time.”

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately, instead looking at the biscuit thoughtfully as though it too could deliver its secrets through observation alone. “I was never much one for… those sorts of things. I preferred my own company. It was…” he paused, lowering his hand, not taking a bite. “it was preferable.”

John knew that preferable in this case meant ‘safe’, safer than getting too close to someone who could hurt him if they got too close. Alone was safer than involving friends in his strange family of absent parents and abusive uncles. That was, if such strangers could even be trusted in the first place.

“Well, consider this a chance to catch up on an otherwise underwhelming experience.”

“A gift I shall be eternally grateful for I’m certain, John.”

There would be no better opening than that. John got up from his spot on the bed, “Um… Talking of gifts.” John said, shuffling into the closet to retrieve the present.

“I was wondering when you would give this to me.” Sherlock remarked.

“I should have known,” John smiled softly, “and here I thought I was so sneaky.”

“Oh rest assured, I have deliberately deleted any detail pertaining to the contents of the box you have in your hands. I shall be as surprised as I can possibly be.” Shuffling in place like an excited child.

“Thank you?” John questioned whilst walking towards Sherlock, depositing the surprisingly large and heavy box in Sherlock’s hands. The material must have been incredibly thick, and he regretted having put off the present giving so long that it was almost summer. “Anyway, here you go.”

John awkwardly shoved the box into Sherlock’s waiting lap, wrung his hands once and sat down on the opposite side of the bed, his back facing Sherlock so that he couldn’t see his reaction.

Behind him was nothing but Sherlock’s soft breathing. A rustle of paper. The thud of the cardboard box being dropped to the floor. John could feel the bed jump underneath him as Sherlock stood up, and it was the last straw, John had to see his reaction. Sherlock was midway through putting the coat on, the long heavy material swinging wildly as pulled it over his shoulders. He popped the collar up as a wind breaker.

Any thought John had in his head about how this would look didn’t even come close to the image that was being cut by Sherlock in that moment. The dark of it complemented his hair and extenuated the ice paleness of the skin.

“It fits you then.” John said, not sure of what else to say. His mouth had gone dry and his mind was full of fluff at the sight of his friend.

“Beautifully, John. Thank you.”

“We’ve made it, haven’t we?” He said, then at the pained look on Sherlock’s face, hurried to clarify, “I mean, with the A-levels and… stuff.”

Sherlock’s face relaxed, schooling his emotion, although his body remained tense. “Indeed we have, John. Look how far we’ve come.”

Sherlock didn’t mention John’s imminent departure. He didn’t mention John’s inability to afford such a gift, he didn’t mention where the two of them would be going in life, or ask him to stay. The two of them just stood, silently. Eventually, small step by small step they came together and wrapped themselves in each other. John was enfolded deep inside Sherlock’s coat like a child. The two of them holding on against the dying of the light. The morning would bring a lot of changes, and neither of them were ready.

~*~

Though they had spent many hours talking, laying side by side in the darkness of John’s room, by the morning Sherlock had gone. John wanted to smack himself for being surprised by Sherlock’s absence like a spurned love. There was nothing the two of them had actually _done_. John had no right to feel Sherlock’s absence like a knife to his chest. It didn’t stop it from hurting though.

John would be picked up by his father at six o’clock, after he’d finished work. It left John the whole day to pack everything he had gotten during his time here into two suitcases. His whole life; his whole independent existence could be packed into such a small space, and yet still the task was hugely overwhelming. He should have done it weeks ago, and but every time he had tried he could only look at the empty suitcase before him and then find something else incredibly vital to do.

Up until this point he had the pressure of examinations as an excuse to avoid the work he needed to do, but now there was nothing left. He had some exit paperwork and then he would have to be done. In a few precious hours his life would be removed from the place he had allowed himself to call home. He would be away from the people he had allowed himself to call friends, and all he could feel, for that moment in time, was numb.

He wouldn’t even be back here for day sessions. That thought kept popping into his head; there were other groups and therapists he was attached to outside of here and he would be going to see _them_. He would be cut off from the people here so quickly. It would be an instantaneous severance. He knew what it was like to lose a limb and he was certain that this separation was on a par with it.

His clothes were washed and ironed, lying flat on his bed and his prosthetics were next to them. His books were placed in neat piles on the floor, and various soaps and brushes were lined up on his bedside cabinet. The process of folding them all neatly and pressing them carefully into the corners of his suitcase was like mediation.

Fold. Place. Fold. Place.

It was only the last few oddly shaped things that he needed to pack; to be wrapped up in socks and put wherever they would best fit. The exception was one small box. The box which was still so beautiful, and contained the gift that had been so precious to him.

Opening the box hadn’t been a part of his plan; he was supposed to be packing things away not making everything even more disorganised. The stethoscope was still as brightly polished as they day he had received it. He didn’t read the small engraving, on the side, but he traced the ridges and furrows of it with a single fingertip. His tight grip held onto the cold steel for a second too long, and found that he couldn’t let go.

It was only as he felt the water drop onto the back of his hands that he realised how hard he was sobbing.

~*~

On a normal day John ran into Sherlock at least six times, before and after every meal. He always made an effort to check up on John, and John in turn often stayed in places where he could be easily found. This pattern had not been broken without forewarning for the best part of a year and yet on his last day; the day where he wished to see Sherlock more than _anyone_ , was the day where he was completely hidden from the world.

John had assumed that regularly scheduled therapy and meetings would have meant that Sherlock couldn’t remain hidden forever, but he knew better than to underestimate the abilities of Mr Holmes. He wanted to say goodbye, to try and explain things that he could barely explain to himself.

It was coming too close to the time he was due to leave. His bags were packed with military precision and his paperwork was in order. He had little to say to Mike, except to thank him and receive Mike’s promise that he would come and sit in on a few of his early therapy sessions to mediate the transfer to John’s new psychiatrist.

“You won’t have anything to worry about,” Mike insisted, “We’re going to make this transition as easy for you as possible.”

“I don’t know about having _nothing_ to worry about.” John tried to smile, but he was aware that it would look strained.

“Any specific worries?” Mike asked him. Though John was no longer his direct concern, he still seemed to genuinely care about John’s future wellbeing. John didn’t know whether he should have expected it at this point, but he was always deeply surprised at how much individuals could care about others.

“No,” John shook his head, “Nothing specific at all, just general sort of uncertainty about the future. But I think that’s a good thing; it’ll keep me on my toes. Everyone’s a little anxious about the future aren’t they?”

“Most of the time, yes, myself included.” Mike admitted, “That you can recognise that is a huge step for you.”

“What will happen if I don’t like my new therapist?” John had to ask.

“Well, I don’t think that likely, but I will always be here to talk to if you need me. I will stay with you through this transition however long that takes. I promise.”

“Okay,” There was little he could do to express his weight of gratitude expect with the tiniest of insignificant words, “Thank you.”

“Any time, John.”

~*~

Sherlock wasn’t there.

He hadn’t expected a huge show of emotion or anything like that, but he had expected _something_. A cold handshake would have been better than this nothingness that Sherlock had left him with. He and his things were now waiting by the front door, hoping for something, anything, that would give him hope for the future, but his father was already on his way and would be only ten or fifteen minutes.

The minutes trickled away in silence until Mrs Hudson arrived. “Your dad’s just came through the front gate, dear.” She said as softly as always, “He’s just parking. He should be here in a second.”

Any hope John had left was falling through his fingers, when a voice called out across the hall.

“John!” he could hardly believe his ears.

“Molly?” Even in that one word John could tell the way her voice had been underused.

She opened her mouth several times, as if trying to say something else. She seemed as surprised by her outburst as John. She was smiling, though tears were forming tracks down her face.

She made a few strange clicks in the back of her throat. Words starting to form, but not able to push past her lips, “It’s okay, Molly.” John insisted, crying himself now, “Thank you, for being here.”

Molly opened her mouth again, but even without her problems she was crying too much for words to come easily. Instead she held her hands out palms up and John didn’t hesitate to copy her gesture. She held her hands over his and then grabbed them, her gentle grip was warm and secure.

“I’ll see you around.” He said, not a promise he could keep, but he hoped that it would be true.

She smile at him once more, “bye.”

As his father came through the door, Molly let go and stood back.

“Are you ready, John?” he grabbed, one of John’s suitcases and waited for John to do the same.

“As I’ll ever be.”

He wanted to say ‘no’, because the one person he wanted to see right now more than any other was nowhere to be seen; it felt like the sort of moment that could make or break them. That was always how it worked in stories; everything was decided in dramatic partings such as these.

But that wasn’t how life worked, and there was no dramatic parting, no profound words or lasting promises. There were quiet words and small smiles. There were two suitcases and a waiting car, nothing that would change the world. Just sad silence and a deleted friendship.

On the other side of a closed door, where John wouldn’t see, was the other half of a friendship broken. In his life he had been taught that if no one heard him cry, then nothing had happened.

~*~

Living with his dad was remarkable easy, they were working through their issues, and the main part of their agreement was to talk. They would talk about anything and everything. Mutual communication, or lack thereof had been the problem throughout John’s life, so if anything was bothering either of them, then they would talk about it. They would find a way to understand the things that had been so difficult to explain to each other in the past. There was obviously still tension, but they were working to relieve it.

He had a space of his own, sufficiently far away from the old neighbourhood that he could ignore the ghosts that live there, both the living and the dead. It was a fresh start with fresh faces and he could be whoever he wanted to be. He was through with the lies and the masks, and people still accepted him for that.

Not every bridge had been mended though. Some, like Carl, could now never be fixed. He hadn’t heard from his mother. He hadn’t heard from his sister either, though his father assured him that she was well. Most importantly, he hadn’t heard from Sherlock.

He hadn’t tried to contact Sherlock either, he had to admit to himself. He couldn’t lay all the blame at Sherlock’s feet when there was absolutely no reason to think that Sherlock had to be the one to make first contact. Even with John’s strong desire to see Sherlock again, he still hadn’t picked up the phone. In the end he could only really blame himself for the things that happened or didn’t happen between them; he was the only one he had control over.

The number remained undialed.

John was spending his months shadowing a cardiologist near to his house, and completing general interning work at the hospital. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to go into cardiology, but he knew he had time to make a proper decision. He was thinking about working in acute trauma, a sort of debt repaid to the people who had saved his own life.

The hospital had been a fascinating place to work. Even if he didn’t become a doctor, he was learning of so many other ways he could be a part of that world. Whilst doctors drove much of what happened in the hospitals, there was so much more that happened, unseen to many.

There were many noble professions to be had in the medical world. It felt like options were opening up before his eyes. The experience of interning had told him that no matter what he ended up doing, he could be happy doing it. He might think of a different path, he might have different dreams and ambitions, but he would be happy in himself. Every day that the phone didn’t ring, he tried to remember that.

~*~

“John!” his father called from the kitchen, “There’s a letter for you!”

John almost laughed at his enthusiasm, they both knew what the letter would be. John knew that he could have looked at the results at midnight online, but he didn’t have to fight for places through clearing if his results weren’t good enough, and he rather liked the idea of opening the letter.

The letter was on the kitchen table, the bills and junk put to one side. It sat, pride of place, next to the jam and butter, possibly the most wonderful and terrifying thing he had seen in his whole life. Such an innocuous little letter, and yet it contained a multitude of possible pathways that John’s life could take. The Schrödinger’s cat of potential outcomes, they could only collapse into one outcome upon reading.

“Do you want me to open it for you?” his dad asked.

“No,” John finally picked the envelope up, “No, I can do it.”

He prised the top open carefully, to avoid tearing the paper that was inside, before pulling out the little bundle of results. He could see that his dad was desperate to know what the results were, but John couldn’t speak about them just yet. He was drowning, every breath struggled against the pressure crushing against this chest.

“Are you okay, John?” his dad asked tentatively.

“Yeah,” he gasped out eventually, “Yeah, I’m good. As, all As.”

“That’s fantastic.” He said, reaching over the other side of the table to pull John into an awkwardly angled hug, his tie trailing in the butter.

“Yeah.” Was all John could think to say in response.

~*~

John sat in front of the interviewers, with palms sweating. He was desperately trying to resist the urge to dry them on the front of his trousers. Everything was sticky, ill-fitting and uncomfortable, even though he knew that they had fit perfectly this morning. He lived and died in the jumper he was wearing, and yet it had become stiff and itchy within the past few hours.

“Good morning, Mr Watson.” A middle aged man greeted, John had known the name of all the lecturers from his research, but the name had completely disappeared on meeting him.

“Good morning.” John willed himself not to stutter.

“We’ll obviously be asking all of the standard questions shortly.” The man continued, “However, we noticed that you completed both your AS levels and A-levels within the year. You briefly mention this as a part of your personal statement. Could you expand upon why you had chosen to complete the courses in one year instead of two? It’s quite the challenge.”

Talk about yourself, be humble, be boastful, what did he just ask?

“In one year?” John said, repeating the question to ensure he was talking about the right thing.

“Indeed,” an elderly woman confirmed.

John didn’t know how much truth was too much truth, obviously he couldn’t lie; everything was on record, but how much of the truth did he really need to highlight?

“I was in an accident.” He started slowly, swallowing deeply around his nervousness, “and I had to spend a lot of time in physical and mental therapy. I had been a year behind as a result, so I didn’t really have much of a choice. I needed to get them done within the year.”

“Still a choice, however.” The woman commented, “and not an easy one.”

“Obviously self-discipline is needed for such a task. Could you explain to us how you prepared for your examinations?” the other man asked.

The rest of the interview melted into one blur from there. John answered as simply and as honestly as he could manage, interpreting little lines on paper like an academic Rorschach test and trying to remember what he had written on his own personal statement.

“Thank you. I believe that’s all we have for you today.”

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr Watson.”

John didn’t really remember getting up out of his seat. He didn’t really remember shaking hands with the interviewers. He didn’t really remember leaving for his tour of the various facilities around campus, but he felt good about it.

Today was a good day.

~*~

“Hello,” his dad answered the phone that was hanging on the wall between the kitchen and living room.

John had almost jumped up to get it himself. Even though he knew that he wouldn’t hear from the university via phone, any form of communication became a potentially earth shattering event. John had taken to eavesdropping on phone calls even after he knew they had nothing to do with his application. He had started to eavesdrop on phone calls of complete strangers on the street, just in case they were suddenly in charge of relaying news about his application.

As ever, it was not a phone call from the university, but it was an important one.

“Slow down, love.” His dad was trying to send calming tones on the other side of the phone, “say that again, Clara who?”

John sat bolt upright at that, a hush had fallen over the room. He picked up the remote to turning off the cheesy seasonal special that had been playing in the background. He hauled himself up on his good leg and hobbled his way over to where his father was standing. John lent heavily on the wall in front of him, silently asking what was going on. His dad put his hand up in a ‘hold on’ gesture.

“Well, where are you now?”

The voice on the other side of the phone was frantic, John couldn’t hear much of what was being said, but it was far removed from anything calm. Panic started flooding him in sympathy, although he knew that it would help no one to get distraught.

“Head inside the coffee shop and stay there, I’m coming to get you. I will be as quick as I can be, just stay there.”

John didn’t ask if he should come along. He was probably welcome from a technical standpoint, but realistically he knew that he was the last person needed right now.

“Is she going to be alright?” John asked as his dad threw on his jack and grabbed his keys.

“I don’t know,” he shook his head, “I really don’t know, John.” He gave him a quick one armed hug, “I’ll be back as soon as I can be.”

John wanted to turn the TV on again, play some mindless cartoons but he couldn’t make himself do anything other than sit in the dark and wait. After some time the click of the door handle echoed through the house, but John didn’t move to greet them.

“We’re back,” his dad called through the hall, shuffling quietly back into the living room, a dejected and distraught Harriet following him. “I’ll get us a drink,” he said patting her on the shoulder, “Do you want one, John?” John nodded minutely, not wanting to make any disturbance.

Harry placed herself carefully on the farthest space away from John. She didn’t meet his eyes, though he was sure she could feel him looking. He tried to not look pitying, knowing how much he hated that himself, but it was hard to toe the line between sympathy and pity.

The silence remained unbroken, John’s awareness of it pulsing in waves. Three tumblers of amber liquid were placed carefully on the table and Harry immediately snatched hers up, knocking back half of it in one swallow. It was a practiced motion judging by the lack of a flinch. John on the other hand took a cautious sip, letting the alcohol evaporate on his lips with a shudder.

Harriet sat staring at the whiskey, watching it roll around the inside of the glass, “What the fuck is _wrong_ with her?” she muttered bitterly, John didn’t answer. He could hazard a guess as to what she was talking about, but voicing any assumptions he had would make it about _him_ and it really wasn’t.

“I want to marry her, you know?” a different _her_ this time, “and mum won’t even… I couldn’t leave her alone, and I thought that maybe she’d have time to think and I thought….” Her voice cracked at she fell silent. She sighed, putting the glass down and placing her head in her hands. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“You thought being there for her would help. We all think we can change people, love. It’s not a bad thing to have hope.” Their dad consoled.

“It’s just so stupid.” Harry sobbed gently, “I should be fucking happy right now, Clara wants to go out and put a fucking rock on my finger and all I feel is terrified that _she_ ’ll turn up with a shotgun.”

Their father was quiet, “We could invite her over, if you like?”

Harry and John both turned to him evident on Harry’s face that she was thinking the exact same thing as, John. “I mean invite Clara over,” he clarified slightly defensively, “she’d be welcome to stay for the holidays.”

Harriet shook her head, “She’s with her parents for the holidays. _They’re_ fucking thrilled to bits. Damn hippies.” She joked, though it fell flat. Each one of them took another drink from their glasses, John still not sure why people enjoyed the taste of it.

“There’s a different church that I was looking into.” His father said, breaking the brittle silence that permeated the room, “I was thinking we could go to midnight mass, go out and enjoy the peace.”

“Are you serious?” Harry questioned, frustration permeating every syllable, free of anger, but full of exhaustion. John bit his tongue, he couldn’t think of a single thing that would be okay to say.

“Like I said,” their father continued to explain, “it’s a different church. A different _sort_ of church, I looked into it. It’s even got a LTCG group thingy.”

“LGBT.” John whispered, and then immediately regretted speaking, as the attention was drawn straight back to him. He still wasn’t used to his father being so open about such things; he had been such a silent and absent figure their entire lives, even though he had been physically present.

“Yeah,” he said, face slightly sheepish, although not showing it to Harry, “that one. I believe it’s called something unbelievably cutesy like; ‘Gay for God’.” John choked on the swig he’d just taken.

“Are you serious?” Harry said, eyes wide with shock or surprise, probably both in equal measure.

“I was always more Church of England anyway.” He finished with a shrug, “I was looking into places where the two of you could just be happy. I thought we could go, look at the decorations, have a bit of a sing song? What do you think?”

“The _two_ of us?” Harry questioned, and John was thinking the same thing, “But I didn’t even tell you. I _still_ haven’t told you.”

“Well, if you end up married to this Clara girl then telling me would rather be a moot point. I don’t know,” he sighed again, “I had my hunches. I always had my hunches, but I’m very bad at knowing what to do with them.”

“Alright,” she said, wiping her face and downing the rest of her drink, “we’ll go sing carols, but I swear I’ll choke if I have to say a single ‘Hail Mary’.”

The mass wasn’t for hours, enough time for Harry to talk on the phone with Clara, start sobbing again, cheer up a little, sit down and talk with their dad, start sobbing again, calm down once more and then finally fall asleep in front of the TV watching re-runs of old Doctor Who specials.

This whole time John had stayed out of it, he didn’t feel like he would be welcome. There were things that Harry needed to work through, and it didn’t include John. He instead started to turn his thoughts inward, not that this was unusual for him. The things that he thought and felt about Harry’s situation were so complicated. He knew that one day he would need to resolve them, but for now they circled around; frustration with his mother, anger at Harry’s hypocrisy, pain and sympathy for Harry’s situation and deep seated jealousy.

The jealousy had bombarded him from all angles, and it made him feel sick with guilt. He was jealous that his father was now giving his attention to his sister once more. He was jealous that Harry had stood up to their mother with barely any repercussion. He was jealous that Harry got to have someone with her who she loved and wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Every single thought and feeling that surrounded them and their childhood and lives hit him full force.

He hated himself for it, because above all else Harry _was_ his sister. If she needed support then, no matter what their collective pasts were, he should have been there for her. Caring for someone, caring for family didn’t have to come with terms and conditions.

With that in mind, eventually he went back into the living room and sat with her. Waking her up was not what he wanted to do, but he wanted her to know that he was there if she did stir. He adjusted his straps on his leg carefully, slower than he had needed to in forever simply for something to do.

“It’s about half an hour walk from here.” His dad said, whispering, “Will you be alright with that? I’ve had a drink so I don’t want to drive. We’ll need to leave in about ten minutes.”

“Not a problem,” John whispered in return, standing to get a heat pack for his knee.

~*~

The walk was quiet, the night was crisp and clear. All three were bundled up in layers of jackets and scarfs. John popped up the coat collar against the wind, and was immediately reminded of absent friends. The cheekbones highlighted by the shadows of the coat. John had so much more than he’d had in years in terms of family and security, but that ache of missing his _something more_ was undeniable, and he didn’t know how to let it go.

Tired and chilled, the three arrived at the correct church, with plenty of time to find a seat in the bustling pews. The vicar himself was a good humoured man, who gave a ridiculous sermon about Disneyland, celebration and quiet anticipation. John found it strange that a congregation was encouraged to laugh, even though the time of year called for it.

He watched the people sitting in the ancient church, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. The soft singing of ‘Silent Night’ punctuated only by the chime of church bells as midnight rang in the new day. When the song finished, the vicar stood again and said to everyone.

“The peace of the lord be always with you.”

The congregation then chimed back, “and also with you.”

“Now that it has chimed midnight, I invite you all to share with one another, a sign of peace. Merry Christmas.”

The church became a quiet buzz of movement as friends and family all hugged and kissed each other, the phrases, “peace be with you,” “peace of the lord,” and simply, “Merry Christmas” echoed around the church. His father gave both him and Harry hugs, before shaking hands with the people from the pew in front. John knew it would be easy to leave it at that, but it was Christmas, so instead he turned to Harry expectantly, and placed his arms around her, hoping not to be rejected.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” John whispered as she held him close in return. The whiskey fumes tickled his throat, but she was warm and real.

A small hiccupping laugh fought its way through Harriet’s lips, “Merry fucking Christmas.” She agreed.

~*~

John would have been embarrassed that his father had found him crying like a child on the floor of the kitchen, if he hadn’t already seen much worse. It was stupid; there was no reason for him to be crying at all. However, sitting here beating himself up about crying hadn’t actually stopped it from happening.

“John?” his father had said, stooping low to try and help him up, but John was having too much trouble getting his muscles to cooperate. Instead his father was forced to join him on the floor. John tried to make a half-hearted gesture towards the paper that had been abandoned on the floor.

There was a crinkle as the letter from the university was picked up and quickly read by curious eyes.

“Oh, John” he said, wrapping his arms around John’s still shaking body, “Congratulations.”

~*~

“Hey, John.” Sarah, a fellow intern, called from across the hall.

“Morning,” John replied with a shy wave, he was always intimidated by her for reasons he couldn’t explain. She wasn’t his boss, but he always felt like she was.

“There’s a phone call for you. Someone called Mycroft? It sounds pretty urgent.”

John’s pulse leapt in his throat, his mouth was instantly dry. He had no idea what Mycroft could want, but he knew that he couldn’t keep the man waiting a moment longer. He sprinted the best he could without kicking a waiting patient, before picking up the receiver.

“Congratulations, John.” Mycroft’s smooth and collected voice came through the phone before John could even say hello. “I understand that you have a very busy decade ahead of you.”

“Thank you.” John managed to spit out between deep breaths.

“Are you still attending your psychotherapy sessions?” he drawled.

John was taken aback by this, “What?”

“Just answer the question please, John.”

“Of course I am.” John answered hesitantly, “Twice a week.”

“And Dr Stamford? Do you still converse with him?”

It took John a second to work out who Mycroft meant, John had always just known him as Mike “I… sometimes.”

“Thank you, John. Please wait one moment.”

John took the phone away from his ear, staring at it for a moment as though he could glean its secrets through appearance alone. Mycroft hadn’t attempted to contact him even once in the months since he was discharged, there were a million reasons swirling around in his mind as to why he could be calling, and none of them sounded particularly good.

There was a crackle and John pressed the phone tightly to his ear as quickly as possible.

“John?”

His heart stuck in his throat. There was nothing coming out of his mouth; he hadn’t heard that voice in so long.

“Hello?” Sherlock said, clear panic building in his voice, “John, are you there?”

“Yes!” he yelped, desperate for Sherlock to talk to him. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Good, that’s… good.” Sherlock stuttered, over such pointless phrases “Um, How… are you?”

John’s heart was in his throat, joy and amusement, “I’m great, but you don’t have to make small talk. It’s all fine. Is everything alright with you?”

“Did Mycroft tell you anything?” Sherlock inquired, not addressing John’s question directly.

John shook his head, silently, before realising how stupid that was. “No,” he admitted, “he didn’t. Has something happened?”

“I suppose.”

There was a long pause on the other end. John wasn’t going to be the first one to break the quiet. The two of them both together had kept this silence for such a long time, but John felt, perhaps wrongly, that he was the one with the most to lose in their friendship.

“I’m being discharged.”

“When?” John jumped in immediately, scenes from films filled his mind, and he turned to face the window as if expecting Sherlock to be standing outside.

“Not for a good few months. There will be some final evaluations, and preparations, but I’m good to go, apparently.”

“Your memories?” John inquired, knowing they were one of the biggest problems Sherlock still faced.

“Still completely perfect,” he boasted in turn, though he must have been aware of what John really meant. “Anyway, what I really needed to say was, my exit from the institute comes with certain stipulations, as could only be expected. Regular drug screenings, continued cognitive therapy and so on. One of the most important things is having a sober partner, someone who I can rely on at any time of the day or night to hold me accountable for my actions.”

“Who you could then studiously ignore.” John joked.

“That would be the important thing. It has to be someone I could never ignore. I had to think for some time about the situation. There was no-one I could think of who fit the bill, my brother would be almost impossibly overbearing, and as you might imagine, there aren’t all that many people on the outside who I would consider as trustworthy, or sober. But then it came to me: John is all of those things and more.”

John’s hands were shaking he tried to not gasp suddenly when he realised he was holding his breath. He still didn’t speak, he had to make sure that he couldn’t misunderstand.

“Would you be willing to volunteer? You would be entitled to free residence in London, or if you wanted to live apart then I’m sure Mycroft could get you a personal car. I understand that you probably already have arrangements for university accommodation starting September, there would really be no obligation on you I simply…”

“Yes.” John cut through Sherlock’s rambling explanations, “To everything, just yes. Details can wait.”

“Okay.”  Snapping back to his ‘of course I had anticipated this,’ voice, “We shall make arrangements.”

“We shall,” in the background there were murmurs that Sherlock replied to with a variety of colourful words.

“I’ll speak to you soon.” He said eventually, with a put upon sigh.

“Phone me whenever you need to. I’ll be there.”

“I will. And John.” Sherlock stopped before he could hang up.

“Yes?”

“Happy birthday.”

The words hit John hard; it marked the second birthday of Sherlock’s that he had missed, but he knew now, that he would never need to miss another.

“Thanks.”

~*~

John had been feeling a little emotionally raw.

A little was quite the understatement. Everything in the world which could have brought about a strong emotion in John seemed to have happened on the very same day. He was starting on his dream at university, he was moving out of his home to live on his own, he was reuniting with the closest friend he had had in his entire life. Needless to say, group therapy had been the last thing on his mind, though that was possibly a good reason to go.

“You mentioned that you’ve your spare things into your father’s home now. Has that been an easy transition for you?”

Harriet had shrugged at that, using her normal brand of bitter humour to deflect any real answers, “If I didn’t move my things out mum probably would have burned them to get rid of the lesbian germs anyway.”

John had flinched at that. It was a side effect of his upbringing perhaps, but the words ‘gay’ and ‘lesbian’ and ‘homosexual’ had never been used in any other context than negative ones. He tried to embrace that side of his life as just another part of him like, ‘blond’ or ‘vertically challenged’ but it was hard to say. Harriet had no problem saying it, in a positive or negative way.

It wasn’t difficult to see how his father had flinched as well,

“What about you, Hamish?” she had asked, “How are you feeling about Harry’s move?”

“Good, obviously. It’s a shame that any of this had to happen at all, but I can’t say I’m sad to have some of their childhood photographs back, and that we can continue to be together as a family. I had assumed I’d never have everyone together again. So, yes; I’m glad it can feel like home. I just wish it was easier…”

“If we were straight you mean?” Harriet asked, though not as accusing as she could have been.

“No,” their dad consoled immediately, “of course not. I wouldn’t wish for you to be any other way than how you are. But I wish your mother, and me – I can’t exclude myself – had had an easier time with this. I wish we had been more accepting.”

“Do you feel a struggle when talking about sexuality, Hamish?” the therapist probed.

“I’ve got to be honest; it’s hard for me. When I was born homosexuality wasn’t even legal, my parents weren’t exactly the kind of people happy with the change. You make your own opinions when you grow up, of course you do, but there’s always that part of your mind that wants to believe that your parents didn’t lie to you. But I _do_ know better than they did, and the rest we can work out.”

“That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” Harry had said.

“The rest we can work out.” John agreed

The rest would always be worked out, as long as they did it together.

~*~

The Baker Street building was really conveniently located for the centre of London. It was quite a way from Bart’s itself, but the Hammersmith and City would take him directly there. It was an easy walk to the edge of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens; John could see himself going running in the morning.

But in reality he could have been anywhere, what mattered was who he was here with. He stepped out of the car onto the street and had to remind himself to breathe. This would be the first time John had seen Sherlock since this time last year. It would have seemed too strange, too incomplete, to visit him in the intervening months. He wanted to know that when he saw Sherlock next, he wouldn’t have to say goodbye.

Only now, it barely seemed real to have him standing there. He cut a sharp figure as always, though his face was a little less gaunt, his eyes were bright and hair was what John would have jovially termed, ‘artistic’ rather than truly dishevelled.

What was more important than any of that, was the coat that Sherlock wore. _His_ coat. The one that John had gotten for him, or at least chosen for him. It didn’t look like something that had been worn once for the sake of appearances, but something that was worn regularly. To John, the late September weather seemed mild and pleasant, but Sherlock’s slight frame had always let in the cold.

They didn’t speak, instead John walked forward to wrap his arms around Sherlock as tightly as possible, Sherlock holding him tightly in kind.

“Welcome home.” John whispered, barely knowing if he had been heard or not.

“It’s good to be home.”

A cough from behind them reminded John that his father was still illegally parked on a double yellow line and that they needed to move things into the hall as soon as possible. John didn’t care though, he was home too.

~*~

Sherlock was deep in papers by the time John had brought up his last box of text books. He was struggling to open the door with hands full, a rucksack over his shoulders and his shiny new running blade under his arm. John knew not to expect any offer of help from Sherlock, especially when there were interesting puzzles to solve.

Sherlock had already had people interested in hiring him as a private detective for domestic incidences. He had turned anything other than official police consultation down, however.

John dropped the box in the middle of the living room. Sherlock had left enough of his things everywhere that he refused to feel guilty about not cleaning it up immediately.

“Why don’t you just start a business doing this? Not that a degree isn’t good, but why Chemistry?”

“I can observe everything in the world to my heart’s content, John. Anatomy I can learn from a text book, but there will come a time where being able to use these machines without some incompetent ruining my test will prove vital.”

John smiled at that; those who had degrees in forensic science and years upon years of working at crime scenes, would never match up to the expectation that Sherlock had of how a mystery should be solved. The arrogance was staggering, but part of John thought that it was well deserved.

“What are you working on, anyway?” he asked dropping himself down in to the chair with a large thump.

“String of small time criminals disappearing, almost certainly murdered. I’m not sure what other name to give Carl’s murderer, but he’s certainly getting a workout.” He said casually, flicking though pages at an alarming rate.

“I’m sorry, what?” John spluttered, “Carl’s what?”

“I thought I’d mentioned it.” Sherlock said absently, not looking up from his papers. “I got a profile on Carl’s murderer. There were some indicators to link him to a new crime boss.”

“No,” John said, suddenly transported back to sleepless nights inside the ‘home’, of Sherlock’s brilliance and John’s own fear and depression. He had almost forgotten about Carl, he didn’t even know how that had happened, or if he should feel as guilty about it as he did.

“The young man in question has no name.” Sherlock said, glancing at John for just a second. “Not one that anyone is willing to speak, but he’s developing an MO. There’s some sort of familial relation to a large crime syndicate, but after some sort of struggle it appeared that he took over the running of the business, or at least has placed himself in the position to do so.”

“Why on earth how do you know this stuff?” John sat, feeling shocked. How had Sherlock managed to get access to such information and secure such contacts from within a closed facility?

“Just because he doesn’t want people to know who he is, it doesn’t mean that there weren’t those who aren’t willing to talk in rumours, legends if you will.” Sherlock had taken on a story-telling tone, “The person in question seems to be cultivating a fairy-tale, one that’s just interesting enough to make people sit up and pay attention. One that blurs the lines between reality and fantasy so that people are too on edge to cross him. It allows him to operate without being seen and have everyone under his charge fearing him if they step a toe out of line.”

“And why on earth would he have been interested in Carl?” John asked, cutting through Sherlock propensity for expounding like the Brothers Grimm.

“I’m not entirely sure, but the suggestion seems to be that Carl’s father had been involved in some small time petty crime. Statistically speaking, he had owed some money, the details are sketchy. Anyway, the belief is that this new boss did away with Carl to ‘balance the debt’. It was a show of power, one designed to remind people that, no matter where they were on the food chain, he was watching. No matter what rung of the ladder, _he_ could and would get involved if needed. It was a way to say ‘watch your back’”

Was it true? John questioned, taking a moment to process the details Sherlock had shared, or was it just a delusional fantasy of a bored mind? The machinations of a mind that couldn’t deal with a solution being as commonplace as domestic violence?

A fleeting thought, a stuttering second, and Jim’s last words came to mind. Was that simply _John’s_ delusion in turn? They lived in a world of people deluding themselves every moment of the day, at least John was aware of his own delusions. Most of the time.

~*~

This was the first full weekend at Baker Street, and though John should have spent it unpacking boxes and sorting through his things, or catching up on his recommended reading, the majority of that morning had actually been spent drinking tea and half-heartedly perusing the newspapers. Being eighteen, he didn’t know of anyone else who actually ordered in the newspaper on a regular basis, but Sherlock had insisted upon it. He was a big fan of ‘sensational literature’, particularly when it included unsolved mysteries.

John on the other hand enjoyed the mindlessness of flicking through looking for the most ridiculous stories he could find, simply for entertainment value. This Saturday however he wasn’t finding as much enjoyment out of the unbelievable ramblings of Ms Higgins of Farrow Lane.

“You’re thinking about something.” Sherlock interjected from across the table, it seemed as though he too was thinking too much about something, but that was hardly new territory for the young detective.

John quirked up the corner of his mouth, “Astute.”

Sherlock’s silence simply said, ‘go on then’ and John had to concede, standing to make a fresh cup of tea to distract himself from thinking too deeply.

“I’m thinking about whether I should try and go to this church tomorrow.”

“Your experiences with religious institutions seem to have been debilitating and negative. It would serve you no rational benefit to go.” Sherlock pointed out simply.

He stood to join John in the kitchen, ostensibly to observe his tea making routine, but they both knew that Sherlock would not be making anything other than a mess in the kitchen any time soon.

“That’s true,” John answered, watching the kettle boil absentmindedly, “but it’s not a rational thing. Consolation maybe? Fix some of the associations by making new memories. I haven’t thought about it too much.”

Sherlock scrunched up his nose a little, “I dislike things being irrational.”

“You were a drug addict.” John countered.

Sherlock’s face was stuck part way between amused and stunned, obviously he wasn’t used to having his issues talked about in such a casual day to day tone.

“Fair point.” He conceded.

“Anyway, I haven’t made a decision yet. You’re right; I’m not going to let myself get hurt again, but that doesn’t mean no.”

Sherlock looked at him with deep curiosity, “How do you make a decision like that?”

“Poorly, generally. I guess you eventually have to reach a decision one way or another, so in the end you just learn how to decide.”

They lapsed into silence as Sherlock considered this.

“People _hurt_ people all the time. Love is one of the most motivating factors for terrible acts the whole world over. Yet despite it being so irrational, people constantly seek people. People seek _love_. Why are we slaves to something so nonsensical?”

John shrugged, “As you said, it doesn’t make sense. Perhaps that’s why people want it; to try to understand why it’s so important, even though it’s illogical”

Sherlock stared at John, the gaze going deep into John’s soul as he tried to hold Sherlock’s eyes in turn. He could see the light of some decision being made in those eyes, and he barely noticed Sherlock’s hand creep over to gently brush against his own where it rested on the side.

“I can’t guarantee I will want any more than this, and I cannot promise you that I will be anything other than myself, which I am assured is completely obnoxious most of the time, but I’m trying to understand that irrational part of myself, too. Even though I know it might cause more damage. I was hoping, I mean of course if you are amenable, I would very much like to kiss you now.”

He wasn’t even aware when he had done it, but John’s hands were tracing along the edge of Sherlock’s hair, catching the long knotted scar at the base of his neck with the tips of his fingers. With his other hand he trailed down Sherlock’s arm, from the shoulder to the place where a mottled patchwork of faded needle scars, all old but angry, still lingered. With his eyes he scanned a scar, running along the line of his eyebrow, thin and silver, small and barely visible.

He caught on the back of his own arm the remnants of his fall into the river, he felt the weight shift from one leg to the other, and could feel the little bumps on the inside of his mouth where he had all but bitten through the skin there.

He saw all of these and marvelled. They were a hot mess of scars and pain, and yet somehow they were still alive.

“Yeah,” John replied, feeling in awe of their survival, “I think I’d like that.”

Maybe there would be a day where Sherlock deprioritised him, perhaps there would be a day where that memory room was too full to hold things like kisses, and when Jim decided to surface again, if this threat was more than in John’s head, he would inevitably become a priority whether John liked it or not, but here in this moment clinging to the each other, this was perfect.

Pressing their lips together, quick and soft, John felt the call of being alive. And in this room, in this home, he could see a world that he filled himself with a new kind of family, with love and friendship and Sherlock. Where maybe they couldn’t fix each other, because that wasn’t how the world worked, but where they could give each other the space and the support needed to fix themselves.

When people went through healing, through any sort of recovery, the mind eventually reached the point where it would turn around and say ‘I’m fixed now.’ It says this over and over. Every day is a look back on the previous days and the realisation that something that happened yesterday was an indicator that something small was still wrong, but today everything is ‘fixed’. And the next day you look back on your own delusion and say, ‘well, _now_ I’m fixed.’

Every day you realise how much better you are, and you think ‘ _this has got to be it. There is no way that I can get any better than I am now.’_ Until eventually, after weeks, or after months, the realisation comes that there is no such state as ‘fixed’. Everyone, through every problem is in a state of improvement. The mind and the body are not as easy to fix as inanimate objects. They are animate. They are alive, and in the process of living they carry the weight of everything that has happened to them.

A twisted ankle can remind the owner of the injury years down the line, and the mind will battle monsters at dark time.

But that did not negate the progress or the healing.

‘Today, I am fixed.’ John thought in his head, the understanding that he could deal with the weight of such love, and not be crushed under it was overwhelming.

It was not true, because there was be still much to be done, but one day he wouldn’t need to think it. One day he wouldn’t need to affirm to himself. One day he would get out of bed and think only about the day ahead, and not the progress he had made in the past. It was not today, but it would happen.

It would happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s all she wrote, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for reading along and reviewing, I know how patient some of you have been through this whole messy process. This is why I don't normally post WIPs!
> 
> Headcannon note (can you have headcannon on a fanfiction?) I really love the idea that after this point they basically just follow the original series, that John and Sherlock get their degrees and fight crimes across London in swishy jackets.
> 
> I also love the idea of the confrontation with Moriarty and the sentence ‘Jim? Jim from the hospital? Did I make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose that was rather the point.” And Sherlock being all like 0_o
> 
> Thank you again! See you on the next one.


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